(8 hours before the universe dies)

It was too late when I woke up.

Well, about two hours later than normal, that is. Normally I’d be woken up by the alarm blurting out my ears at 8, but with the electricity going down yesterday, I woke up to a silent box on my nightstand with numbers that were no longer lit up.

I rolled over to face the other side of our bed to wake up my wife, tell her we’d overslept quite a bit with the electricity going out.

But to my surprise, her spot was empty.

Now, that wasn’t normal for my wife. Normally I was the one to wake her up and help her to get out of bed, and she’d always be complaining she hadn’t finished her dream yet (She probably just couldn’t be bothered to get up yet…), even though she never really stopped dreaming regardless…

I figured she’d just be making us breakfast already, or maybe she was waiting on the couch for me, knitting that scarf for the winter that would never arrive.

I opened our curtains, letting the dim blueish light seep more into the chamber, coating everything with a comforting, albeit cold, hue.

“Good morning, dwarfy…” I whispered to the window.

It was something I got from her. The first thing she did in the morning was shuffle over to the window, open the curtains and smile brightly at the star (maybe even brighter than it could shine back at her). And then she bid it a good morning.

Most might call it “odd”, some even “strange” or “weird”. I call it “unique”.

I took my time to make my way to the living room. There was no rush to do anything anymore, it being our last day. We could just sit down on the couch together and snuggle up under a blanket for the hours we had left, patiently waiting for the sky and everything around us to turn black, and for us to pass onto our next journey together.

Except those plans were completely ruined when I entered a living room that had a distinct lack of her.

There was something severely wrong. The blanket was gone from the couch, and her knitting set was missing too. On the coffee table was a single empty cup. Not even drank from; it looked like it came straight out of the cupboard. I called out for her.

No response.

And that same silence, that same lack of her kept repeating, echoing throughout the house as I kept calling her name.

She was gone.

I rushed over to the kitchen – the door to which was still open – to see if she left a note. Maybe she went out to do groceries…? She would go out to do groceries, even today of all days…

But no note on the kitchen table. No pen either; the thought of leaving a note must’ve never crossed her mind. The only thing still on the table were the teapot from yesterday evening, and a picture frame, face-down.

I recognized the frame. Dark red and wooden. Saving a memory from way, way back when. I put it upright, only to see the glass had shattered completely.

A shock of pain ran through my chest. 44 years… 44 years had this picture frame been a heartwarming memory in our family. And now it was broken to pieces…

I took out the picture, deeply hoping the glass hadn’t torn or damaged it in any way. Apparently luck was on my side for a change; the photo was entirely untouched.

None of us three were looking into the camera when it was taken, but still, it was one of the most beautiful pictures taken that day.

My wife in a hospital bed, me leaning over her shoulder beside her. Both of us looking at our little Lily wrapped up in blankets, peacefully sleeping in her arms. Both of us with teary eyes.

Proud parents we were back then, and proud parents we stayed throughout.