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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 photo album was buried under a stack of old magazines in the bottom drawer of Lila's desk. Daniel only found it because he was looking for a screwdriver to fix the wobbly kitchen chair—the one Luke kept complaining about.

He wiped the dust from the cover with his sleeve. The faux leather was peeling at the corners, the spine cracked from years of disuse. When he flipped it open, the first page nearly came loose in his hands.

"Europe Trip, 2016" was scrawled in Lila's looping handwriting across the top.

There they were—younger, softer at the edges. Lila grinning in front of the Eiffel Tower, her hair windswept, one hand holding a melting gelato. Daniel beside her, squinting in the sun, his arm slung around her shoulders.

He traced the edge of the photo. He could remember the heat of that day, the sticky sweetness of the gelato on his fingers, the way Lila had laughed when a pigeon stole a bite right out of her cone.

But he couldn't remember the sound of that laugh.

The memory was there, but it was blurred at the edges, like a song he'd heard too long ago to hum the tune. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon it—the pitch, the rhythm, the way her nose crinkled—but it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

"Hey, have you seen my—" Luke stopped short in the doorway. His gaze dropped to the album. "Oh."

Daniel swallowed. "I didn't know she had this."

Luke edged closer, peering over his shoulder. "That's Paris, right?"

"Yeah." Daniel turned the page. More photos: Lila pretending to lift the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the two of them crammed into a gondola in Venice, her asleep on a train with her mouth slightly open.

Luke snorted. "She always denied she snored."

"She didn't," Daniel said automatically, then paused. "Did she?"

Luke shrugged. "Dunno. I just liked messing with her."

Daniel flipped another page. A polaroid of Lila mid-sneeze, her face scrunched up. A candid shot of her reading on a park bench, sunlight filtering through the trees behind her.

He stared at that one the longest.

Daniel's throat felt tight. "I can't remember her laugh."

Luke didn't say anything. Just reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. A few taps, and then—

Lila's voice filled the room. Not the voicemail, but a video. Grainy, shaky, taken on Luke's old phone.

"Okay, okay, I'm doing it!" Lila's voice, bright with amusement. The camera wobbled, then focused on her attempting to balance a spoon on her nose. It immediately clattered to the table, and she burst into laughter—real laughter, unfiltered and loud.

Luke put the phone down between them. "I've got more," he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just handed Daniel back a piece of her.

The Photo Album