A Plate for Three
The candles flickered against the dim light of our dining room, casting long shadows across the table set for three. It was my 47th birthday, a day I used to love. But for the last two years, it had become a quiet ritual of grief, a moment I braved for the small, persistent hope that refused to die inside me. I placed the third plate out of habit—or maybe out of longing. That plate was for Karen.
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