The day I buried Emily, I thought all I had left were our memories and photos. But that night, when something slipped from behind our engagement picture, my hands began to shake. What I discovered made me question if I’d ever truly known my wife.

A black ribbon hung from our front door, tied by the funeral home. I stared at it, my key paused in the lock, wondering why anyone thought it was necessary. As if the neighbors didn’t already know I had spent the afternoon at the cemetery, watching my wife lowered into the ground while the reverend spoke of angels and eternal rest.

Finally, I pushed the door open. The house felt unfamiliar. It smelled of leather polish and sympathy casseroles, not of Emily. Her sister, Jane, had “helped” by tidying the house while I was at the hospital during those final days. Now, everything gleamed with a sterile brightness that made the space feel foreign.

“Home sweet home, right, Em?” I called out automatically, the words catching in my throat. Silence answered, pressing down on me like a weight.

I kicked off my dress shoes, the ones Emily had bought me for last Christmas. They hit the wall with dull thuds. She would’ve scolded me for that, pressing her lips together to hide her smile as she lectured me about scuff marks.