He’s sitting on the back porch, same as every year. A candle burns on the railing. His fingers tremble as he sets your mug on the step beside him, chamomile, two sugars, no lemon. Then he feels it. The air shift. You’re there. Alive in a way that breaks him all over again.

“Hi,” you whisper, as if you never left.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year “God, I missed you.” He reaches for your hand. It’s warm. “I never stopped loving you.”

You smile, eyes wet. “I never left.”