I stopped believing in ghosts three years ago, the day my husband died. After fifty-five years of marriage, Edward was gone in a single afternoon. The doctor said his heart failed quickly, that he didn’t suffer. People said that like it was supposed to help. It didn’t. What it did was leave a silence so dense it felt physical, like living underwater—every sound muffled, every movement slowed, every breath heavy.
I’m Dorothy. I’m seventy-eight years old. Widowhood stretches time in strange, unkind ways. Some days crawl forward inch by inch. Others vanish entirely. You forget meals. You forget dates. You forget why you walked into a room. But you never forget the shape of the person you loved. Their absence doesn’t echo—it presses.
Edward had habits that drove me mad. Socks on the bathroom floor no matter how many times I complained. Long silences during arguments that felt like punishment. Opinions about everything from politics to lawn care, all delivered with quiet certainty. And yet, I loved him with a devotion so deep it felt permanent. I believed our life together was complete, sealed, finished exactly as it was meant to be.
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