Walking at night was the only time that she could pretend.
Because the night was meant to be silent. As long as you forgot that you used to be able to hear distant traffic and the scratch-scratch of unseen animals.
At night she could convince herself that they were still there. The bulbs that hadn’t yet died still glowed, allowing her to imagine families going about their nightly routines.
In the day, the silence and stillness were overwhelming.
In the day, she could see the mound where she had buried him. The last person she would ever speak to.
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