• She was in her kitchen, with the cool blue impenetrable quiet
    she had craved and she remembered the excursion of his warm hand on her skin, the idea of a family he had embodied, the strength of his love for her still intact, like a city underneath the earth that had failed to fully prosper. She remembered the day they had met when they were young and different, and she probed that moment as she did all things until she was exhausted by the what-if and whatnots and what would come to pass.
    She saw her entire life pass into all the objects in the house, and she was reminded of the familiarity of a full life as she had lived it: the symmetry of color, of shapes so perfect
    you didn't want to touch or disrupt the arrangement; the orchestration of their bodies; how they had grieved, the quiet distillation of his essence, filling her house with breaths so unlike her own. When it happened, it came as something inevitable, without expectation, without notice, with a life and force of its own, changing everything, even the quality of air they had grown to depend on, and they hadn't known how to stop it, and then she knew it wasn't the end,
    it was only the beginning.

    By,
    Thedestroyingmaster13