The antique desk groaned under the weight of the letter. Sarah ran a trembling hand across the worn wood, the grain rough beneath her fingertips. Ten years. Ten years since the accident, since she'd lost him. The crisp, official-looking envelope felt alien in her calloused hands, a stark contrast to the memories it resurrected. Her chest constricted, a sudden ache radiating outwards. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny, fleeting reminder of everything she'd lost. She picked up the letter.
She sat heavily in her grandfather's old armchair, the floral pattern of the fabric now faded and worn. The silence in the house pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating. Her fingers fumbled with the seal, her breath catching in her throat as she slowly unfolded the paper. The words swam before her eyes, blurring into a meaningless jumble. She blinked, forcing herself to focus.
The name, the date, the place. It was all there, a brutal summary of the day her world had fractured. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, landing on the crisp, unfamiliar paper, smudging the carefully crafted apology. The words were hollow, coming far too late to mend the damage. A low sob escaped her, and she rested her head in her hands.