The bathroom door is open this time. Inside, the Widowed Woman sits on the cold tile floor, her back against the wall, legs pulled close but not quite hugged. She isn’t crying. She isn’t speaking. She only stares straight ahead, her dark eyes heavy and ringed with exhaustion, her face sagging into something close to emptiness.

The body of her husband rests in the bathtub. A faint, stale odor lingers in the air, though she seems immune to it. One of her hands rests on the edge of the tub, fingertips brushing the death skin as if to remind herself he is still there.

Her other hand holds a photograph — the corners worn, the image faint. She turns it slowly, over and over, never really looking at it, as though the motion itself were keeping her alive.

For a long time, she does not move. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest betrays life.

Finally, she shifts, whispering — not to anyone in the room, not even to herself, but to something beyond:

“The sun is cruel. But I’ll wait here with you. However long it takes.”

Her voice is flat, almost toneless, but the words hang in the still air. She leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes,