The notification didn’t announce itself — no sound, no vibration, just a quiet line of text on my phone. That’s what made it terrifying.
Eight days after my wife’s funeral, silence had weight. I was just learning to live with it when I saw the charge on our joint bank account: a car rental. My heart dropped — this wasn’t a bill or an automated payment.
Grief snapped into panic. I drove to the rental office, hands shaking, convinced it was a mistake. When I showed the clerk a photo of my wife, something changed. He recognized her — not confused, he said, and he shared details about her visit: how she smiled when handed the keys, the destination she mentioned.
I walked out without arguing. Outside, life carried on normally. I sat, realizing certainty can shatter without a sound.
Maybe the clerk was wrong. Maybe grief fooled me. Or maybe her story wasn’t finished.
That night, I didn’t chase explanations. I opened old messages, voicemails, and her notes.