They buried him on a day that dared to be beautiful. The sky was a tender blue. The sun showed up without apology, casting its light over everything like a blessing no one asked for. Birds sang. Somewhere, a child laughed. None of it touched her.

She stood there, hands clenched around wilted stems, watching the earth open its mouth to take him. No breeze blew. No shadow shifted across her path. And yet she shivered. Because sometimes the cruellest thing a day can do is to look like hope.

The sunset that evening was almost too beautiful. Fire across the clouds. Gold bleeding into violet. The kind of light that made people stop what they were doing and just look, as if the world was trying to say, remember this. As if beauty can prepare you for the absence.

She stood by the window of their small apartment, her tea cold in her hands. She hadn’t moved in hours. Not really. Her body shifted, yes. Her lungs filled, barely. But something inside her–something deep at the core of her–was still curled up in the passenger seat of that car, watching blood soak into fabric.

They said he died instantly. She didn’t believe them. Not that they were wrong. But because it hurt more to imagine he would leave her without saying goodbye.

The morning after the funeral, the sun rose like nothing had happened.

She walked to the shore alone. It was the first thing they’d done together after moving there, years ago. He used to say, “There’s something honest about the sea. It doesn’t make promises. It comes, it goes. It never pretends to stay.”

Now, neither did he.

She sat on their bench– the one near the silver oak where he once kissed her with salt on his lips and then held her in his arms the way the faithful hold their last prayer, gently, like it might shatter if held too tightly.

Her palms lay flat in her lap, holding nothing. Waiting. Still.

The sky began to dim, slowly. The sun slipping behind the curve of the world like it held a secret it wouldn’t share. And her breath caught.

It wasn’t the sunset that broke her. It was what came after.

The silence. The way colour drained out of everything. The knowing that warmth was not coming back, not tonight. Maybe not ever.

She whispered into the wind, “Where did you go when you left? Are you somewhere, or just… gone?”

And maybe it was foolish to hope that the wind would answer back. But in that moment, a gull cut across the sky, crying out with a sound that was far too human, thin with sorrow, almost mournful.

She let herself cry then. Not for the accident. Not even for the man she lost. But for the space he left behind.

The chair by the window, its cushion thinned where his weight once rested, the leather slightly worn beneath the curve of his elbows, one armrest darker than the other from years of quiet habit. There was a faint indentation still, a ghost of his posture, as if the chair hadn’t yet accepted he was gone.

His toothbrush still stood in the cup by the sink. Frayed bristles blooming like a flower left too long in the sun. She’d tried earlier that morning to throw it away. Her hand hovered over the bin, but it felt like she was erasing something. Not just the toothbrush, but the sound of him moving through the hallway, the sound of his bare feet on tile, the off-key hum that always lingered like steam after he left the bathroom.

So she left it. Just like she left the chair. And the quiet.

Some mornings, she swore she could still hear that melody–faint and unanchored–threading itself through the air like breath. She never could remember the tune after those moments. Only that it made her chest ache. And that the silence it left behind was far too loud.

These were the most painful. The little things. The things that don’t make the headlines. The things that make a life.

The sun had vanished completely now, and the sea turned to black ink. Still, she sat. Not because she thought he’d come back to her if she waited. But because part of her wanted to remain in the place where the light last touched him. A place he had last touched her.

She would go home soon. Boil water for tea that’ll cool in her hands. Feed the silence. Put on his sweater and pretend it was enough.

But for now, just this. Just the night. Just the ache that reminded her he had been real.

And that she had loved him even after the sunset.