After my wife Kate’s death, I often called her number to hear her on the answering machine. Once, the machine cut off, and I distinctly heard her say, “What are you doing? No!” before the call ended.
Convinced it was her, I began investigating. It was a normal Sunday, and I sat in “Paprika,” a small café in the city’s heart. The area was full of life, and the smell of coffee and pastries filled the air.
People laughed and talked. The baristas moved smoothly, always smiling as they worked, and music played softly in the background. But I felt alone.
This café was special to Kate and me. We came here every weekend for seven years. Without her, everything felt different.
The warmth didn’t reach me. Every corner reminded me of her. Our first date, her birthdays, her favorite cinnamon roll.
I missed Kate. I missed her laugh, her touch, and her smile, so I dialed her number again, hoping to hear her on the answering machine. “Hi, you’ve reached Kate…” Her cheerful voice brought both comfort and pain.
I’d called many times since she passed. It was how I remembered her. I thought about the day I proposed, our wedding, and all the times she supported me.
Kate’s funeral was a few days ago. It was incredibly hard. The day was gray and cold.
Empty. The ceremony passed in a blur,
and everyone’s words of comfort sounded distant. I couldn’t believe my wife, the love of my life, was gone.
Her death was a shock, too. She died after her car fell into a canyon, and the doctors couldn’t do anything. “She’s gone,” they said.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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