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Daniel’s world shatters when his wife, Lila, dies suddenly from an undiagnosed heart condition. Grief-stricken and paralyzed by loss, he retreats into the silence of their empty apartment, surrounded by the ghost of her presence—her untouched coffee cup, her half-read books, the voicemail he plays on loop just to hear her voice.

As months pass, Daniel’s isolation deepens. His sister, Claire, begs him to rejoin the living, but he refuses, clinging to the pain because it’s the last thing tying him to Lila. When he finally musters the strength to sort through her belongings, he uncovers letters from her estranged father—a man she spent years searching for, only to find his grave. The discovery forces Daniel to confront his own regrets: the conversations they never had, the love he took for granted, the future they’ll never share.

Haunted by memories and suffocated by solitude, Daniel must decide whether to drown in the past or find a way to carry Lila with him into a life he never wanted to live without her.

The Weight of Absence

The bedroom door was never closed.

Daniel had made sure of that. In the weeks—no, months—since Lila's death, he had slept on the couch, or in the armchair, or sometimes not at all. The bed was still made the way she had left it, the sheets tucked tight beneath the mattress, her pillow dented from where her head had last rested. If he closed the door, it would be like sealing a tomb.

But tonight, the door was almost shut.

A draft, maybe. Or the building settling. Or—

He stood in the hallway, staring at the sliver of darkness between the door and the frame. His pulse thudded in his throat. It was irrational, this fear. There was nothing in that room but ghosts.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting the bed in silver. Lila's nightgown still hung on the back of the closet door, the fabric swaying slightly, as if disturbed by a breath. Daniel's own breath caught.

He should leave. He would leave.

But then his foot caught on something.

Not one of the neatly labeled ones from the hall closet. This was smaller, shoved halfway under the bed like it had been hidden in a hurry. The lid was loose, a corner of paper peeking out.

Daniel knelt. The floor was cold against his knees.

Inside the box were receipts. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all folded into tight squares. He smoothed one open.

June 14th. Café Luna. Two coffees, one blueberry scone.

Another: March 3rd. Strand Bookstore. One used paperback (The History of Love, $8.50).

The day he'd surprised her after work.

Receipts for movie tickets, for groceries, for a single daisy bought from a street vendor ("Because it looked lonely," she'd said). Tiny, mundane records of a life built together.

At the bottom of the box, sealed in a yellowing envelope, was a plane ticket.

One-way. Portland to New York. Dated three years ago.

Daniel pressed the ticket to his chest, his vision blurring. She'd kept it. All this time, she'd kept it.

Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe groaned. The nightgown swayed again.

And for the first time since her death, Daniel didn't feel alone.

The Unopened Door