The February wind howled over the old cemetery on the outskirts of Willowbrook, Massachusetts, chasing dry leaves between tilted crosses and modest headstones.
Andrew Carter walked with a steady stride, wrapped in a warm black coat, his hands tucked into his pockets. His face remained calm, almost detached, though inside, thoughts churned restlessly.
As he did every year, he came here to perform his quiet ritual—visiting the grave of his wife, Helen. Five years had passed since she was gone, and though the outward grief had long faded, Andrew remained broken inside.
That day had taken not only the love of his life but also the warmth of their home in the historic district, the joy of shared evenings over coffee, and the invisible bond that kept him afloat.
