The Glass Court

The padel ball cracked against the glass wall, the sound sharp and final, like a door slamming shut for the last time. Elena stood alone on the court, her racket dangling from sweat-slicked fingers. It had been Marco's favorite game—the way he'd laugh when she missed an easy shot, how he'd insist they play every Sunday morning even when she wanted to sleep in.

Now Sunday mornings were just empty.

"Ms. Hart?" The club manager's voice cut through her reverie. "We're closing in ten."

Elena nodded, gathering her things. Her apartment awaited—too quiet, too still. The dog, Buster, had been Marco's labrador mix, a clumsy creature who still searched for him in doorways. The cat, Luna, slept on Marco's pillow as if waiting for a head that would never return.

At home, Buster greeted her with desperate enthusiasm, his tail thumping against the walls. Luna wound around Elena's ankles, purring. They were the last pieces of him she had left, these animals who didn't understand loss, only absence.

Elena sank onto the sofa, burying her face in Buster's warm fur. He smelled like old walks and shared secrets. Luna leaped gracefully onto her lap, kneading dough against her chest. This was the way grief worked—not in dramatic moments but in the quiet ache of everyday things. A game of padel. A dog's expectant eyes. A cat's persistent weight.

She'd thought about giving them up. It would be easier. But looking at them now, she understood: they weren't reminders of what she'd lost. They were what remained of what she'd loved.

"Well," she whispered to them both, "I guess we keep going."

And somehow, in the apartment that had felt too empty for months, something finally felt whole again.