What She Left Behind
Three weeks had passed, yet time felt frozen. It was as if my life had stopped moving while the rest of the world kept going without me.
My name is Erin. I was forty years old, learning how quiet a house can become when the light that once filled it is suddenly gone.
My days blurred together—sleepless nights, empty mornings, mechanical routines. I moved through rooms on autopilot, doing just enough to appear functional while my heart remained somewhere far away.
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