Goodbye Henry

Rain whispered against the windowpane, tracing crooked lines down the glass. Edna sat quietly in her armchair, her thin fingers resting on the armrest as she watched the world blur and ripple outside. The sky was a dull gray, the kind Henry used to call "fireplace weather."

Her eyes drifted to the coffee table. The urn sat there again — the one she had moved and forgotten, then moved again. She didn’t quite remember when she’d put it back this time, but she did remember Henry’s voice, promising her a house with a hearth, somewhere warm, somewhere with laughter. A place they’d grow old in together.

But like so many of his promises, that one never came true.

She chuckled softly — a dry, papery sound — at the thought that his final resting place had once been a landfill. That infernal vacuum cleaner had knocked the urn from the table years ago, scattering Henry into the carpet and, eventually, into the trash. She remembered crying for days. Or maybe that had been last week. Time had become slippery lately.

The rain grew heavier, a steady drumming that filled the silence of the small room. Edna bowed her head slightly, folding her hands in her lap.

“Goodbye again, Henry,” she whispered. “I think this time I’ve really seen the last of you.”

Then she turned back to the window, watching the rain wash the world clean, waiting for the warmth of a fireplace that never was.