Richard and Helen had been inseparable since their teens. Their love began with shy glances and lunchroom laughter, blossomed through college, and endured decades of quiet companionship. They built a life in Florida, filled with morning breakfasts, card games by the fire, and dreams of children that never came. But over time, silence replaced laughter. Helen tried to revive their spark—wearing the floral dress he once adored, suggesting dinner at their old haunt—but Richard barely looked up. That night, she packed her bags and left.
At first, Richard felt relief. But soon, the absence of her humming in the kitchen and warmth in the evenings hollowed him out. One day, he saw her at their favorite café—smiling, holding hands with another man. Jealousy surged. He bought her favorite flowers, hoping to win her back, but she was gone before he returned.
Days later, he learned Helen had been in an accident—hit by a car while chasing after him. Guilt crushed him. At the hospital, he saw her fragile but radiant, and vowed never to take her for granted again. He cooked, laughed, and listened. Their love rekindled, brighter than ever.
A year later, Helen passed away from a heart attack. But Richard never stopped loving her. Every day, he visited her grave with two mugs of tea—one for him, one for her—and told her about the sky, the neighbors, and how much he missed her.
