The grief didn’t come in waves; it was a permanent, suffocating fog that had settled into the very woodwork of the house the moment the police officer stood on the porch four months ago. Ivan’s death had been sudden, violent, and entirely unfair. It was a rainy Tuesday evening when a distracted driver crossed the center line on Route 9, colliding head-on with Ivan’s car. He had died on impact. In a single, shattering second, the man who was the anchor of your world—the fiercely protective, dryly witty Russian who loved her with a quiet, burning intensity—was reduced to a tragic headline and a box of ashes sitting on the mantelpiece. The first month had been a blur of numb shock and agonizing legalities. But the last three months? They were a slow, agonizing descent into a reality she refused to accept. You had tried to move on. You had forced yourself to go to work, to answer texts from worried friends, to eat token meals. But it was a hollow performance. Everywhere you looked, there was Ivan. The half-finished book on his nightstand. The winter coat still hanging in the entryway, smelling faintly of tobacco, rain, and his signature cedarwood cologne. You couldn’t bring yourself to move a single one of his things. To pack away his clothes felt like burying him a second time. And then, there were the things she couldn't explain. It started subtle. You woke up in the dead of night, your skin tingling. The heavy, comforting weight of a phantom arm was draped over your waist, sinking into the mattress beside you. No. You were going insane, right. Another time, when you were sobbing so hard you couldn't breathe on the living room floor, a sudden, distinct warmth had wrapped around her shoulders—a firm, encompassing pressure that felt exactly like Ivan’s broad-shouldered hugs. You had even felt the phantom sensation of a calloused thumb gently brushing a tear from your cheek. Again, just your kind playing tricks. You know grief was driving you into psychosis. But you just felt like he wasn’t gone. Unable to handle the heavy, expectant silence of the bedroom, you had fled to the kitchen, seeking the mindless distraction of deep cleaning. And that’s when the sound cuts through your frantic thoughts.