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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 Honda started on the third try.

Luke sat in the driver's seat, hands clenched on the wheel, the engine rattling beneath him like it was as unsure about this as he was. The car smelled like old leather and pine air freshener—the kind Lila used to buy in bulk because "they're cheap and they don't smell like regret."

He hadn't meant to drive to the old house.

But when the engine finally caught and the GPS suggested three different routes home, his fingers hovered over the screen—then tapped in the address he hadn't visited in five years.

The neighborhood hadn't changed. Same cracked sidewalks. Same rusted swing set in the park where Lila used to push him so high he'd scream. Same peeling blue shutters on the house they'd lived in before the apartment, before Daniel.

Luke killed the engine and stared at the porch.

The last time he'd been here, he was thirteen, and Lila had just gotten custody. She'd marched him up those steps, her hand tight around his, and said, "We're taking what's ours." They'd left with two duffel bags and a shoebox full of photos their mom hadn't bothered to pack.

Now, the house had new owners—a tricycle on the lawn, a Welcome mat that looked freshly vacuumed.

"You alive? Or did the Honda finally achieve its dream of becoming a scrapheap?"

Luke snorted and typed back: "It's holding together. Barely."

A pause. Then: "Where are you?"

Luke hesitated. His thumb hovered over the screen.

The front door of the house opened.

A woman stepped out—early thirties, baby on her hip. She squinted at the Honda, then at Luke.

The woman smiled and turned to call inside, "Mike, the trash pandas are back!"

Luke took that as his cue to leave.

The Drive