David pulled up in front of the small townhouse—the one I had called home for so long, the one that had housed so many of our shared memories. It was the place where I had once found comfort, where I had felt grounded, where the future felt tangible. That modest house with its chipped brickwork and peeling white trim had, for a while, been a sanctuary. In the small front yard stood a few potted plants I used to water religiously, surrounding the paved square where two aging lawn chairs still sat. I’d spent countless mornings there, coffee in hand, wrapped in an old robe, planning out the years ahead. I’d envisioned growing old in that space—imagining children running across the concrete, their laughter echoing while I taught them life’s lessons.
But all of those hopes had shattered like g
