text: He sat down for his coffee, an after-breakfast ritual that had kept him well over the decades, and he opened the paper, a local periodical harkening back to the days when every community had its own press, shared its own news, the days when you would not only know the names that peppered the front page but will have a personal familiarity with the owners of those names. He started at the front and wandered through, the old man meandering among the text, when he stopped, froze. In the silence of the kitchen, a single tear blazed a path down his cheek. In the stillness of the morning, a choked sob broke through the house, loud and piercing, reverberating past the faded wallpaper and wandering upstairs where it interrupted another morning ritual. Valerie sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair. She took her time these days, the days long after children fled the nest and moved on to build their own, growing into their adulthoods to make beautiful fledglings of their own. She hummed to herself a mix of mostly forgotten melodies as she readied herself for the long day; the day filled with the frivolities and indulgences of retirement when that broken sound found her in her sanctuary, this holy grotto where she began her days. "Stephen?" she cried out, concerned of the air wretchedness betrayed in that sound. But no answer came forth, save the sound of a screen door, closing slowly in the hiss of the hydraulics. She rose and found her way into the kitchen, empty save for the small wooden table which glowed white in the morning sunlight. On it, she saw the remains of her husband's morning, aborted and abandoned. Coffee, the color of milk chocolate, lay in the cup and on the saucer half-finished. The paper balanced precariously on the corner of the table, the chair shoved into the center of the room, emphasizing the loneliness of the scene. And, through the window, she saw Stephen, standing in the middle of the garden path, facing away from her, hands covering his face, spasms of sorrow wracking his now ancient frame. She picked up the paper, guessing that might be the cause of the disturbance, and glanced across the columns of the justified font. The obituaries were open. It was not something Stephen would typically care about, but today was different. Today the paper changed its layout, the editor-in-chief wanting to make it easier to read the classified section, a section Stephen loved, had moved the obituaries. Today the obituaries held unique content as well. On the top, in bold she saw, in a simple font, "Marylynn Anderson (76)." Then she understood. Years ago, Valerie and Stephen had known her. Well, Stephen knew her. She was his co-worker, a fellow teacher, though a different department. They worked together for years, and seemed close, for co-workers, but then, at some faculty event, Valerie couldn't remember which, she learned the young Mrs. Anderson left. She tried asking Stephen about the plain-faced math teacher, but Stephen had just shaken his head, saying he did not know. She couldn't say for sure, but Stephen had changed in those months. He was less active, older. She chalked it up to age, maybe a mild midlife crisis even. Not knowing what else to do, she gave him his space, guessing that he would recover on his own, that he would reach out if he needed. And he did improve, for the most part. His infectious, sometimes mischievous smile returned, that coy turn of the lip that she so loved. But he had changed, at least a little. Valerie didn't give it much thought in the years since. The change was small, subtle, but something that only tickled the back of her mind until now. Now she looked at the name, printed in black and gray, and understood what had happened, what she missed all those years ago. Now she saw, and understood. Stephen stood in the garden, hiding behind his hands, trying not to give in to the pain that flooded him, the sorrows that had built up over the years, the regrets and the longings hope kept alive, a light that intoxicated him with the memory of her smile, of her gentleness, of her touch and her smell. It was a flame he kindled and then hid away but never put out, a light whose brilliance shattered the darkness. But when it was discovered, an embrace, one thought to be in the privacy of an empty building, seen by another member of the English department, she fled and it dimmed. It still burned in secret, far in the background, unacknowledged and unpursued. It lay there, despite vacations and graduations, stayed there, despite achievements and failures, remained, through distance, sometimes greater, sometimes lesser. And finally, four decades later, and unknown to Stephen, Marylynn, or, for that matter, Valerie, only two blocks away, that flame flickered and went out. The smoke that remained left Stephen alone in the garden, in the dark shadows of his own hands. And it left Valerie alone in the kitchen, the dust in the air making sunbeams clear and visible as the late morning light. Both shed tears, not for what each lost, but what they never had. And both have never felt so alone.