She stood at the window, a full mug of warm cocoa grasped between her thin hands. Glancing to the bedside table behind her, tears escaped Sarah’s soft eyes. His glasses were still resting on top of his book, which was still face up and open.

He had been reading it not two nights ago, reading aloud to her his favorite passages from the worn book. Their bed was still unmade, his pillow still hollow from his head. Sarah looked out the window, her breath clouding the glass. She raised an unsteady hand and wiped it away, only to have it reform again, blocking her view of the sleeping world outside.

She slowly left the room, being careful not to spill a drop of her cocoa as she went down the stairs. Sarah forced herself to stare at her mug; she couldn’t pull herself to look at his worn boots, which still lay at the bottom of the stairs.

Muted voices reached her ears as she neared the kitchen. Sarah stopped just outside the door, a deep sigh erupting from deep in her throat as she took a small sip from the cooling mug. She closed her eyes as the liquid slid down her throat, barely warm. Reaching out a hand, she pushed open the door.

They were silent as she entered. One by one, they went up to her, offering their condolences. All Sarah could see was the picture that hung beside the stove; Wesley, standing in front of the hill in the nearby park. That was where he had proposed, underneath the stars and fireworks.

She sat alone in the dark, one hand still holding her mug of cocoa. The other hand held a picture. The moonlight that shone through the window beside her highlighted the snapshot of Sarah as she proudly held her violin after a concert. Stray fingers slid over the snapshot to a small, peach colored shape in the corner. A soft sigh escaped Sarah as a gentle smile curved up the corners of her lips. Wesley had always been a horrible photographer; whether it was a finger in the frame or opening the back of the camera while there was still film exposed. Her hand lowered into her lap as the moonlight caught the shiny surface of a key ring sitting on the kitchen table. Someone brought them from the car ignition. Wesley always got tired of losing them.

Her memory drifted to a room upstairs; her music room, where she would play for him. Only when her hand cramped and refused to move did she put down the beloved instrument.

She hadn’t played it since…

She hadn’t played it in days.