place where Ezra had waited for me every Sunday.
One evening, I walked inside alone.
Everything remained as he had left it.
The yellow clock ticked above the sink. Helen’s photograph stood beside the coffee maker. His mug was upside down on the drying rack.
I sat in his chair.
The silence felt heavier than the suitcase.
Then I noticed something on the refrigerator.
Ezra’s final grocery list was still attached with a magnet.
Eggs.
Bread.
Bananas.
Coffee.
Chicken broth.
Peach preserves.
At the bottom, he had added one sentence