“I slipped,” she gasped. “I think it’s broken.”
The ambulance arrived quickly. At the hospital, the doctors confirmed a fractured hip, two clean breaks. At seventy-five, that’s no small thing. The surgery went well, they said, but recovery would be slow. She was transferred to a rehabilitation facility across town.
For the first time in decades, I came home to an empty house.
I hadn’t realized how much of the house’s life came from Helen’s small movements: the hum of an old tune, the clink of dishes, the shuffle of her slippers across the floor. Without her, the silence pressed in on me.
It was during those quiet evenings that I began hearing the sound.
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