It was raining. Like a faint scent on the air, the tiny droplets had brought it all back to her. She had been dreaming of the day that he died, the first day of all the days when nothing was the same. And then she was back in the present, where things were still changing, and it was dark, and cold�and raining. The wind blew the heavy precipitation onto the bay window like bullets, and for a moment, Gina sat, anticipating the moment when one would puncture the glass and reach into her soft belly, grabbing out her life force and flinging her, violently, back into the gardens of old�

She pressed her hand against the glass gingerly, the intense cold of it biting at her fingers. It had been a night just like this�shaking her head, she pulled herself from her window seat post and headed toward the kitchen, to coffee and a place where the rain could not reach her.

Despite the distance from the window and the weather, Gina could not shake the feeling of nostalgia that had come over here. In the kitchen, at least, that feeling became a little less morbid. In the light, she could almost see his lanky figure bent over the table, seated awkwardly in his favorite chair, a glass of milk in hand. She smiled faintly at the �his and hers� coffee mugs he had bought her at a corner stand in New York sitting in their places behind the glass cabinets, the ivory china he�d brought back from Venice, the message he�d written in dry-erase marker on the refrigerator left unchanged for seven months�

The coffee sent a warming sensation through her body like the burn from a swig of brandy. With each sip, her jangled nerves calmed, her fear dissipated. The house was quiet, empty and cavernous like a mountain refuge. Gina wondered for a moment if her voice would echo should she call out his name. She dismissed this idea quickly, however; such a thing had once been saved for dark nights under the cotton sheets of their marriage bed, and would only serve as another fruitless reminder of her loss.

Running her hands gently through her chestnut curls, she sighed; the rain outside would not be letting up. Knowing well that sleep she could not return to her window seat bed, Gina pulled her housecoat closer to her neck and gently laid her cheek upon the smooth wooden surface of the table. The solidity of the furniture comforted her, and soon her weary eyes closed, her mind drifting back to him�