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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

First National Bank was all marble floors and hushed voices, the kind of place that made Luke feel like he should be wearing a suit instead of his usual hoodie-and-jeans combo. The clerk at the desk eyed him skeptically when he handed over the key and his ID.

"Ellis…" She tapped at her computer. "Ah. Box 214. Right this way."

She led him to a back room lined with metal drawers, each labeled with a numbered brass plate. Box 214 was midway up, unremarkable except for the faint layer of dust on its handle.

Luke's hands shook as he turned the key.

Inside was a stack of papers and a small velvet box.

Life insurance policy—his name in bold at the top.

College fund statements—enough to cover four years at state school, plus some.

Deed to a 2004 Honda Civic—"So you don't have to borrow Daniel's shitty car," read a sticky note in Lila's handwriting.

And at the bottom, an envelope labeled For When You Need It.

Luke set it aside and picked up the velvet box.

Inside was a watch. Simple, silver, the face slightly scratched. He recognized it immediately—their dad's. The one thing Lila had kept when he left.

"Why do you keep it?" Luke had asked once, when he was twelve.

"So I remember," she'd said, snapping the box shut. "Not all memories are good, kid."

Luke swallowed hard and reached for the last envelope.

Inside was a photo—Lila at maybe sixteen, holding a baby Luke in one arm and flipping off the camera with the other. On the back, in fresh ink (Daniel's handwriting?):

She'd want you to have the good memories too.

Luke pressed the photo to his chest and didn't try to stop the tears.

The Safety Deposit Box