James sat down at the kitchen table and looked around the room.  He could see his countertops, and into his living room. It still felt like home, but the memories it held had changed. At the beginning of the year, the house was full of possibilities and hope, now after a year of change and loss it felt sad and empty.

James remembered last New Year’s Eve, ringing in the new year with the person that he promised to love forever. He remembered dancing, laughing, and planning a year of fun. It took a part of him when everything went wrong.

James and his wife met at a bar.  He smiled as he thought about it.  He noticed her across the room, but it took most of the evening to walk over and introduce himself.  She was with friends that night and they were just having fun. There was something about her when they met.  He couldn’t forget her, not then and not now.

Even sitting alone at the kitchen table, he could still hear her laugh. Her laugh still lived in the corners of the room, soft and unexpected. It was the kind of laugh that made other people laugh too, the kind that filled space without trying. Back then, he thought that was what love was supposed to do. It was supposed to fill things up and make them whole, but he wasn’t feeling whole.

They’d talked, that night, until the bar lights flickered, until chairs were flipped onto tables and the bartender gave them that look that said it was time to go. James remembered how awkward he’d felt asking for her number, how relieved he was when she smiled and typed it into his phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. He remembered walking home that night with his hands shoved into his pockets, heart pounding, thinking,that this night just changed everything.

And it had.

James looked around and saw a house had once echoed with that kind of energy.  He remembered late-night conversations in the kitchen, playing music while they cooked, arguments that ended in apologies, and a comfortable and safe silence. They painted the living room together one spring afternoon, both of them terrible at it, laughing more than working. He could still see the faint streaks near the ceiling where neither of them wanted to climb the ladder again. At the time, they’d called it “character.”

Now it just looked unfinished.

James pushed his chair back and stood, walking slowly through the living room. Each step felt deliberate, like he was walking through memories. He paused near the window, staring out at the street where nothing had changed at all. Cars still passed. Neighbors still waved. Life, annoyingly, kept moving. He watched and felt that it was moving on without him.

Loss had a way of shrinking the world. It turned days into something to survive instead of something to enjoy. He hadn’t expected that. He thought his overwhelming grief would be loud, dramatic, obvious. Instead, it was quiet, so quiet that no one seemed to notice. It showed up in empty mugs, unused coats, and the way he still listened for keys at the door.

He sat back down, resting his elbows on the table, hands folded like he was waiting for instructions. Somewhere along the way, he realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out slowly.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said to the room, his voice barely above a whisper.

But even as the sadness pressed in, something else flickered beneath it. A memory of who he had been before everything broke. A man who believed in beginnings and possibilities. A man who walked across a crowded bar because something told him it was worth the risk.

James glanced toward the hallway, toward the bedroom that held too many ghosts to enter tonight. Healing didn’t mean forgetting, that much he knew. Maybe it meant learning how to carry the memories without letting them crush him. Maybe it meant allowing the house to become something new, even if it never felt the same again.

He picked up his phone, scrolling through old photos before stopping himself. Not tonight. Tonight was about sitting with what was real. About acknowledging the hurt without drowning in it.

Outside, the sky darkened, and the first stars appeared, small and stubborn. James watched them for a long moment, then stood and turned on the light. The room warmed instantly.

It wasn’t hope yet. But it was something, more like resolve.

And for the first time in a long while, that felt like it was enough to keep going.