Candies woke that Valentine’s Day with a rare lightness in her chest, a fluttering hope that somehow, even amidst the weariness of daily life, love could still bloom anew. The early morning light filtered gently through the curtains, dust motes dancing like tiny fairies in the golden glow. The house was still quiet—too quiet, in some ways—but she welcomed the calm as a balm.
She moved with tender care, arranging the living room with touches that felt like whispered promises. Twinkling fairy lights were draped around the windows, casting a soft glow that made the familiar walls shimmer like something magical. The heart-shaped red velvet cheesecake rested on the table, its glossy crimson topping gleaming like a gem, a silent testament to the sweetness she wanted to rekindle.
The dress she chose was the one Eddison had gifted her on their first anniversary—a simple scarlet slip, delicate yet enduring. Time had faded its fabric, but it still hugged her in all the right places, like an old lover’s embrace. She fastened the necklace he had given her years ago, the one with the tiny silver heart pendant, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Tonight was a chance—a chance to remind them both that beneath the weight of chores, sleepless nights, and the relentless pull of everyday life, the flame of their love still flickered.
But when the doorbell rang, the spell shattered.
Eddison stepped in, his expression unreadable. His eyes swept across the room with a flicker of surprise, but it quickly gave way to a cold, dismissive frown.
“What on earth is all this?” His voice cut through the soft warmth of the room like a shard of ice. “Are we playing house now? Acting like teenagers?”
Candies’s heart cracked in that moment. The soft, hopeful hum inside her fractured into a thousand sharp pieces. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she whispered. “I just wanted to—”
“To what?” he interrupted, flipping the light switch on with a sharp snap. “Waste money on candles and decorations?”
“I didn’t spend much,” she tried to explain, her voice trembling. “And I wore the dress you gave me. Remember?”
His eyes scanned the dinner she’d prepared, lingering on the modest spread of pasta and vegetables, simple dishes made from the scraps of the week. He took a bite of the spaghetti, grimaced, and spat it out like a bitter insult. “Is this soap? What is this flavor?”
A lump rose in Candies’s throat. “The babies are asleep, Eddison. Please.”
“But of course they’re asleep. You spend your days playing house while I slave away. And now you expect applause for lighting candles and burning dinner?”
His words were daggers, piercing the fragile bubble she had tried to blow around their evening. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into palms as tears threatened to spill. She turned sharply and fled toward the nursery, the soft cries of their triplets echoing down the hall.
The babies stirred, their tiny cries a reminder of her exhau$tion. The diaper bag was nearly empty. She felt the heavy weight of her failures pressing down—how could she keep everything together when the very man she loved saw only shortcomings?
Returning to the living room, Candies’s jaw was set, her voice firmer than she felt. “I’m going to the store. Watch the kids.”
“Run away,” Eddison sneered. “Add that to your long list of accomplishments.”
The slam of the door reverberated through the house, echoing her broken spirit.
Hours later, the house felt hollow. The cries of the babies had settled into uneasy silence, but Eddison’s pacing grew frantic, his irritation palpable. Then, a knock—a sharp, official rap.
The face that greeted him at the door was not hers.
“Are you Mr. Hastings?” the officer’s voice was soft, almost gentle, but the weight behind it was crushing.
Eddison nodded dumbly.
“There was an accident,” the officer continued. “Your wife… she didn’t make it.”
The words fell like stones in a silent well. Time slowed, the room closing in as disbelief flooded his senses.
That night, the house was cloaked in shadows, the once-cheerful glow of fairy lights now dim and almost mournful. Eddison sat alone at the dining table, the flickering candles untouched, their flames bowing before the weight of his grief. His hands trembled, fingers barely able to grasp the delicate gift box she had left behind—the symbol of love he had failed to appreciate in time.
The ribbon was worn, its edges frayed as if it, too, had been weathered by the storms of their life together. The paper, once crisp and pristine, bore the soft creases of hopeful anticipation that now mocked him in silence. In that moment, the box was no longer a gift but a ghost, haunting him with the echoes of a celebration that never was.
Inside, he found a letter, her familiar handwriting curling across the page like a gentle sigh, a whispered promise that had never reached its fulfillment. And beneath the letter, two plane tickets to Hawaii—a dream they were meant to share, a voyage toward healing and renewal, now forever out of reach.
“To the love of my life, Eddison,” the letter began, each word soaked in warmth and hope, “I got a job! Mrs. Nelson will watch the babies so you can rest. And I booked us a trip—just us, to the ocean you love so much.”
Her words, brimming with optimism and tenderness, struck him with the sharpness of a thousand knives. They were a cruel reminder of the future they had envisioned, a future that had been stolen by fate’s unforgiving hand. The weight of loss pressed down on him, crushing and relentless, suffocating the very breath from his lungs.
He sat there, unable to rise, as a maelstrom of emotions engulfed him—anguish, regret, guilt, and an aching loneliness deeper than any ocean she had longed to visit. How had he been so blind? So harsh? So ungrateful for the love she poured into their home, into their lives?
The quiet of the house was deafening. Not a single sound stirred, save for the erratic beat of his heart, pounding in his ears like a funeral drum. Tears welled and spilled unbidden, tracing silent trails down his cheeks, an outward testament to the storm raging within.
That trip to Hawaii—the laughter, the sunsets, the gentle sway of the ocean breeze—would remain a cruel mirage, a symbol of all that might have been if only he had held her more gently, spoken with more kindness, listened with more care.
He never opened the wine she’d hoped to share with him that night. The bottles in the cabinet gathered dust, untouched and forgotten. The candles she’d lit so lovingly stayed unlit, their wax melting away into the cold darkness of solitude.
Instead, Eddison raised their children with a devotion carved from sorrow and determination. Each Valentine’s Day, he made the pilgrimage alone to Candies’s grave, the fresh-cut flowers in his trembling hands a fragile offering to the woman who had been the light of his life. His voice cracked as he read her letter aloud, reciting stories of the children’s small triumphs and his own hollow victories, speaking to her as if she still sat beside him.
In the stillness of the night, when the world held its breath, he whispered words he’d buried deep within his soul, words that came too late but carried the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies: “I’m sorry. I see you.”
And though she was gone, her presence lingered—etched into the very fabric of their home, in the gentle rustle of the curtains, the faint scent of cinnamon coffee, the soft, ghostly laughter of a love that neither time nor de@th could fully erase.
