The morning sun filtered through the kitchen curtains of the Whitmore house, casting golden rectangles across the worn linoleum floor. Eleanor sat at the breakfast table, her fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug that had lost its warmth long ago. Across from her, Walter methodically buttered his toast, the scraping sound of the knife against bread the only noise breaking the silence that had settled between them like morning frost.
It hadn’t always been this way. Eleanor could remember when breakfasts were filled with laughter, when Walter would read her amusing passages from the newspaper, when he would leave little notes tucked under her coffee cup. Those days felt like echoes from another lifetime—one where romance wasn’t a burden but a joy shared between two people who couldn’t imagine life without each other.
“Walter,” Eleanor said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “Do you remember when you used to bring me daisies from Mrs. Henderson’s garden?”
