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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

Luke sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, the envelope balanced on his knees like a live grenade.

Lila's handwriting. Unmistakable. The y in birthday slanted just slightly to the left, the way it always did when she was in a hurry. He'd found it tucked between the pages of an old physics textbook—one she'd bought him when he'd complained about his teacher sophomore year. "Here," she'd said, tossing it at his head. "Now you have no excuses to fail."

The book had been untouched for months.

He traced the edge of the envelope with his thumb. It wasn't sealed—just folded shut, the flap tucked neatly inside. Like she'd meant to add something else later.

Luke shoved the envelope under his pillow just as Daniel poked his head in. "You alive in here? I made—well, attempted—stir fry."

The smell of burnt sesame oil drifted in from the kitchen. Luke forced a grin. "Attempted being the key word?"

Daniel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I'll have you know, char is a flavor."

Luke laughed, but it sounded hollow even to him. His fingers twitched toward the pillow.

Daniel's gaze flickered to the movement, then back to Luke's face. "You okay?"

A beat. Daniel nodded, too perceptive for his own good but blessedly willing to let it slide. "Dinner's in five. Don't let it fossilize."

Luke exhaled and pulled the envelope free.

Inside was a single sheet of paper and a key.

If you're reading this, you're officially an adult (scary, right?). The key's for a safety deposit box at First National. There's something in there you should have when you're ready.

Also—don't let Daniel cook without supervision. The man burns water.

Luke's vision blurred. He read it again. Then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

The Letter