Every morning begins the same way now. I wake before the sun, the world still quiet, holding its breath. And before my feet touch the ground, my first thought is always of him—Ed. The mornings used to be full of routine and conversation: the sound of the kettle boiling, Ed humming a tune as he folded the newspaper, the gentle way he’d say my name as he handed me a cup of coffee. Now, in the stillness, I replay those moments like a song I don’t want to end. Sometimes I catch myself reaching for two mugs instead of one. I still glance toward his chair, half-expecting him to be sitting there in his robe, grinning at some ridiculous headline. There’s an ache in those quiet moments—but there’s also warmth, because they remind me of how fully he lived, how deeply he loved.