Goldfish in the Glass Bowl

Arthur's hands trembled slightly as he reached for the small orange bottle - his daily **vitamin** ritual, a practice maintained through fifty years of marriage. Sarah had always reminded him about health, about the small disciplines that build a life together.

Beside the bottle sat the glass bowl, Emma's **goldfish** swimming lazily in circles. She'd left it with him when starting college three months ago, unable to take it to the dorms. "Just until May, Grandpa," she'd said, pressing the bowl into his weathered hands. Now he found himself talking to the fish some mornings, as if it might somehow carry his voice back to her.

The routine continued: breakfast alone, though the chair across from him remained empty. He'd grown fond of **spinach** and eggs in his later years - Sarah's influence persisting even three years after she'd gone. She'd tried growing spinach in their garden once. The rabbits had eaten everything, but they'd laughed about it for years afterward.

On the television, the **cable** news droned softly - another modern convenience that had somehow made the world feel smaller and more confusing all at once. Arthur found comfort in the weather reports, in the predictable patterns they described.

Then came the storm - autumn **lightning** striking somewhere nearby, illuminating the dark sky with brilliant flashes. The goldfish darted nervously in its bowl. Arthur watched the light through the window, remembering how Sarah had once told him that lightning never strikes the same place twice, but love finds its way back to the same heart again and again.

His phone buzzed. Emma. "Grandpa, are you okay? That storm looks terrible on the news. And I know you were going to call about the cable bill - I can handle it from here, really."

Arthur smiled, typing back slowly. "The fish and I are fine. Some things are sturdy yet."