The ghost step on the stairwell

Dear Delyara, I still instinctively buy the brand of coffee he liked, the one that smells faintly of hazelnut and bitter cocoa, even though it’s been eight months since our decree absolute came through. This morning, as the kettle started to whistle, I swore I heard his heavy, familiar footstep on the bottom stair—that slight, uneven pause he always had when he was carrying his work bag. I turned around with a smile already forming on my face, my lips ready to say his name, only to be met by the cold, stagnant air of an empty kitchen. The silence didn't just rush back in; it felt like a physical blow to my ribs. The legal papers say we are disconnected, that our assets are divided and our lives are uncoupled, but my reflexes haven't read the court orders. I am still a wife waiting for a door to open, trapped in a house where the hinges have already been changed.