The rain had come again.
Talia watched from their small apartment's living room window as the city blurred behind droplets, everything hazy and soft. Ezra had been quiet all morning, but not in the way that used to worry her. This quiet was intentional, a slow kind of healing that came with reflection.
He sat at the kitchen table, a cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand, a piece of hospital stationery in the other.
He had been writing since sunrise.
Talia glanced at the stack of crumpled pages in the waste bin.
"What are you trying to say?" she asked gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she sat beside him.
Ezra let out a quiet sigh. "I keep starting over. I want it to be perfect. But there's no perfect way to say sorry for losing someone's husband."
Talia reached across the table and rested her hand on his wrist. "It doesn't have to be perfect. Just honest."
He nodded slowly and looked back at the half-written page in front of him.
Dear Mrs. Halbridge,
I was your husband's resident doctor. I sat beside him during quiet mornings and asked him about the crossword puzzles you were to bring at lunchtime.
I remember how he spoke about you — like he was still falling in love. Every day.
On the morning he passed, I wasn't fast enough. Or strong enough. Or lucky enough. And I know those aren't the right words, but they're the only ones I have right now.
I wish I had done more. I wish I had told you sooner. I wish this letter didn't exist.
But I want you to know he wasn't alone.
He held on longer than anyone expected. And his last words were your name.
Ezra paused, blinking hard as he stared at the ink drying on the page. His fingers trembled slightly.
"Do you think she'd want to read this?" he asked.
Talia looked at him for a long moment. "I think… she deserves to."
Later that afternoon, they walked together through the drizzle toward the postbox two blocks away. Ezra's letter was sealed in a plain white envelope, no return address.
He hesitated before slipping it in.
"I feel like the moment I send this," he said, "it becomes real. Final."
Talia reached for his hand. "It was already real. This is just your way of honoring it."
He looked at her, eyes soft and tired. And then he let the envelope fall.
They stood there for a moment, the soft hum of the city surrounding them, a subtle breeze brushing against their coats. Ezra squeezed her hand.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For not pushing. For just… being here."
"You'd do the same for me," she said. "And you will. Someday."
That night, they curled into each other on the couch. The TV flickered quietly in the background, forgotten. Ezra had dozed off, his head resting on Talia's shoulder, the weight of the week finally pulling him under.
Talia brushed a hand through his curls and kissed the top of his head.
She thought about all the things they still didn't know — about life, about love, about grief. But this much she was sure of:
They were growing through it.
Together.
And that was enough.