He’d burned the chicken.
We’d laughed about it for years.
Later, he built a wooden bench against the far wall because he said I deserved somewhere comfortable to sit while watching the sunset.
On summer evenings, we’d bring coffee upstairs and talk about our days.
Sometimes we didn’t talk at all.
The terrace had never been about impressing anyone.
It was our place.
Occasionally, Michael invited neighbors over for fireworks.
Karen had come several times, along with a few others.
She always arrived early and stayed late.
Michael didn’t mind.
He enjoyed company.
But he also knew when to tell people the evening was over.
After he died, I stopped hosting gatherings.
I still went upstairs alone, especially on the evenings when I missed him most.
The bench remained in its usual corner.
His old wind chime hung beside the door.
Sometimes, sitting there made the house feel less empty.
