One evening, after another request, I opened an airline website and finally booked the trip Humphrey and I never got to take: Alaska.
Ten days. Freedom. Mountains. Whales. Ice.
I opened a new leather notebook—Lionel’s gift—and wrote a list:
Alaska. Denali. New York. Italy. Japan.
All the places I’d delayed for decades because someone always needed something from me.
Now no one owned my time.
I looked at a photo of Humphrey from our last mountain trip—him smiling, eyes bright.
“I wish you could see this,” I whispered.
“But now I live for both of us.”
Outside, the ocean rumbled—eternal, unbound, free.
I opened the balcony doors and let the sea air rush in.
Tomorrow would be another new day.
And I finally knew how to breathe again.
