The house felt wrong the morning after Mark’s funeral—colder, emptier, like something vital had been ripped away. I stood in the foyer, still in black, surrounded by the lingering scent of lilies and loss. Just yesterday, this house had been filled with mourners praising Mark Miller, my husband, the firefighter who died saving a child. A hero, they said. Only thirty-two.
Their sympathy had faded into silence now, leaving only me and the echo of his absence. Then I heard it—the sharp, metallic click of a lock being changed.
Turning toward the door, I saw Mark’s father with a locksmith, his face carved from stone. Behind him, Mark’s mother and brother carried out boxes—my clothes, my books, my life.
“The house belongs to the Miller family now,” he said.
