The Last Vitamin

Julia stood before the bathroom mirror, running her fingers through graying hair that seemed to thin more each month. At forty-seven, she'd finally stopped dyeing it—let the silver threads announce what the mirror already screamed.

"You're beautiful,"

Marcus would say, even during the final months when his voice had grown raspy and weak. He'd press his lips to her forehead, his once-thick hair now gone entirely.

But Marcus had been dead eleven months.

She turned to the kitchen. Spinach wilted in the colander, a gift from her sister who still believed in the healing power of greens. Julia placed it in the pan, watching as heat transformed vibrant leaves into something dark and surrendering. That's what grief did—it cooked you down until only the essence remained.

The vitamin bottle sat on the counter, prescription-strength D3 that the doctor insisted she take. "Your levels are critically low," he'd said, as if deficiency explained the hollowed-out feeling in her chest, as if something synthesized in a lab could replace what loss had extracted.

She swallowed one dry.

Her father's old fishing hat hung on the peg by the door—weathered canvas, smelling of brine and tobacco. She'd stolen it when she was twelve, worn it until it molded to her skull. Marcus had found it charming how she'd sleep in it during thunderstorms, claiming it made her feel safe.

Now she only wore it when the memories came too sharply, pulling the brim low like armor against the world.

The kettle whistled. Julia poured boiling water into the mug—herbal tea, no caffeine after noon. The steam rose around her face, and for a moment, she could almost smell the ocean. She and Marcus had planned to retire by the sea. They'd picked the town, saved the money. Then his diagnosis came with the precision of a death sentence.

She stirred the tea, watching the water darken. Some days, she wanted to scream at how thoroughly life could dismantle a future. Other days, like today, she simply existed inside the quiet.

The spinach was ready. Julia sat at the table where Marcus had carved his initials into the underside—something juvenile they'd laughed about while doing, now a secret archaeology of love. She ate slowly, each bite a small act of continuation.

After dinner, she placed her hand on her stomach, feeling the strange and terrible privilege of a body that kept going when her heart had not fully agreed to it. Tomorrow she would wake, take her vitamin, water the plants. This was the shape survival took.