Lightning in the Aftermath

Elena stared at the vitamin bottle on her counter, orange plastic glaring in the harsh kitchen light. Three months since David's funeral, and still she took them every morning—his last act of care, his worry about her health etched into these gelatin capsules. She swallowed one dry, not tasting the bitterness anymore.

The cat, Barnaby, wound around her ankles, his gray fur already gathering the morning dust motes. He'd been David's shadow, now hers. Elena scooped him up, burying her face in his soft neck. "Still here," she whispered. The cat purred, a small earthquake against her chest.

Outside, the sky bruised purple. Storms had been uncommon this summer, but the weather forecast had warned of unusual weather patterns—climate change, they said. Everything changing.

Her phone buzzed. David's mother. Again. Elena let it go to voicemail. She couldn't face another conversation about whether she'd dated again, whether she'd "moved on," as if grief were something you could file away in cabinets.

The first crack of lightning hit so close the house shook.

Barnaby bolted. Elena watched through the window as lightning forked across the sky, electric veins illuminating the backyard oak where David had carved their initials. The trunk scarred over now, the letters barely visible. Time eroding everything.

She thought about vitamins—how they promised renewal, how they were supposed to fix what was broken. But some things couldn't be fixed. Some things you just carried.

Another lightning strike, and the power died. The house fell into shadow. Elena sat on the kitchen floor, Barnaby creeping back to press against her leg. In the darkness, she finally let herself cry—not the quiet tears she'd allowed herself these past months, but the guttural sobs she'd been holding back since the hospital room.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, something broke open. When the power returned an hour later, Elena stood up, swept the vitamin bottle into the trash, and called David's mother back.