A millionaire bu/rie/d his wife. He was returning from the cemetery. By the gate sat an old woman. He gave her money. She took it, looked at him, and quietly asked, “And what will you say to your daughter?” He froze. He had no daughter…

Gregory nodded but did not move immediately. He stared at the fresh mound of earth and the white flowers Erin used to adore. He tried to remember her face as she had been before illness hollowed her cheeks and dulled her bright laugh. Strangely, the memory refused to settle clearly. The last years had been filled with hospitals, exhaustion, and silence. He wondered when love had quietly turned into duty.

People came and went, shaking his hand, whispering condolences. Gregory responded mechanically, hearing nothing. Only one thought pulsed in his mind. He was alone. Completely alone. They had no children.

Doctors had told them early in marriage that Erin could not bear children. They tried specialists and treatments. They traveled across states chasing hope. Nothing worked. Gregory had eventually accepted it. Erin never did. He sometimes believed her illness grew from sorrow and unfulfilled longing.

“It is time,” Walter repeated softly.

Gregory finally turned and walked toward the exit, his steps slow and heavy. Rain thickened, soaking his coat, turning the ground to mud. Nothing mattered except the emptiness ahead.