Fred sat on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped together. The house was quiet, too quiet.
The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed louder than usual. He let out a soft sigh and looked around the living room that once felt full of life.
Anabelle’s laughter used to fill this space. He could almost hear it echoing faintly in the corners of the room.
Her favorite blanket still rested on the armchair, folded neatly, just the way she liked it. Fred reached out and touched it, his chest tightening as memories flooded back.
He remembered how she used to hum softly while cooking breakfast. The scent of toast and coffee would drift through the house every morning.
Now, the kitchen was spotless and silent, the counters empty, the air still. It felt strange not to hear her voice singin
