I’m 73 years old, and since my wife passed away eight months ago, the house has felt unbearably quiet.

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We never had children. It was always just the two of us—forty-three years of shared mornings, shared worries, shared laughter. She used to say the house remembered our voices even when we weren’t speaking. Now, it remembers only mine.

Most days, I keep the TV on just to hear something other than my own thoughts.That Thursday, I drove to Walmart to buy groceries. Nothing special—milk, bread, soup, the same things I’ve bought every week since she died. As I pushed the cart back toward my car, the wind cut through the parking lot like a blade. It stung my face, numbed my fingers.

That’s when I noticed her.

She stood near the far edge of the lot, half-hidden between parked cars. A young woman, barely more than a girl, holding a baby wrapped in what looked like a thin bath towel. She wore only a light sweater, the kind meant for autumn, not for a winter afternoon like this.

She was shaking so hard I could see her knees trembling.

I stopped walking.

Something in my chest tightened, the same way it used when my wife used to forget her gloves in the cold.

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