Margaret Hale turned seventy with hands marked by soap and a heart full of names. She had lived four decades in the same wooden house—a modest home that creaked at dawn as if it woke up with her. It was where she raised three children, where she held the family together after her husband died too soon, where she learned to turn exhaustion into routine and routine into love.
That morning, she woke as always, her white hair neatly combed, preparing strong coffee. She walked downstairs expecting life—footsteps, a glass in the sink, the television that once filled the house with laughter. But instead, she felt silence. Not peaceful silence. Empty silence.
