Inside, the air carries a faint scent of lavender and old wood.
The silence is not empty. It is full of him. Roberto in the chair by the window reading the newspaper. Roberto humming off-key in the kitchen while making coffee. Roberto muttering at the television during baseball games as if the players could hear him.
For six months, that silence has cut you.
Today, it steadies you.
You walk straight to the bedroom without removing your shoes. The dresser stands against the wall beneath your wedding photograph, sturdy and familiar, its brass handles worn smooth by decades of use. Your heartbeat thickens as you pull open the top drawer.
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