He sat in a sun-filled room — the particular angle of afternoon light through the window was her light. The kind that used to fill the room she loved most. Without warning, the grief was fresh again. He looked up — weathered face, steady eyes — and said quietly: “Some days the grief feels fresh again. Like it just happened.” Then, without bitterness, with the simple candor of a long faith: “But God meets me in the ache. He sits with me there.” I did not have anything to add to that. It was already complete.
