Another day, I caught myself laughing at something Graham said. I could not even remember the joke afterward. I only remembered the shock of hearing that sound come from me again.
At first, it felt like betrayal.
Then it felt like survival.
Our routine settled into something gentle and familiar. Sunday mornings on the porch with coffee. Long conversations about the past. Stories about Malcolm, some funny, some bittersweet, all cherished.
We spoke of him often, but the pain changed. It was no longer sharp and unbearable. It became something quieter, like a memory you revisit with care.
One afternoon, Graham arrived with a small bouquet of white daisies.
“They reminded me of you,” he said, a little awkwardly.
I raised an eyebrow. “Because I am stubborn and refuse to di3?”
He laughed softly. “Because you endure.”
