The call came at dawn. The phone rang on the bedside table, a sharp, intrusive sound that cut through the silence of the cottage. I knew who it was before I answered. The nurse from the facility. Her voice was soft, professional, devoid of surprise. It was a call she had made many times before, just not for me.
"Mrs. Valerio," she said. "He passed peacefully. About an hour ago."
I didn't cry. I didn't speak. I simply said, "Thank you," and hung up. The house was quiet. The kettle was whistling in the kitchen. I walked to the kitchen and turned off the stove. The whistle stopped. The silence returned, heavier than before.
I drove to the facility. The roads were empty. The sun was rising, casting long shadows across the wet pavement. The world was continuing, indifferent to the change in
