What Remains in the Soil

Elena stood at the kitchen sink, watching water spiral down the drain, carrying away the day's residue. Three months since David died, and she still couldn't get used to the silence of the house. The spinach she'd planted together last spring now grew wild and unruly in the backyard—ironic how it thrived now that he was gone.

Their cat, Milo, had taken to sleeping on David's side of the bed, as if guarding something precious. Elena understood. She still kept one of his flannel shirts under her pillow, though the scent had faded weeks ago. Grief was a funny thing—you clawed for every lingering piece of someone until you realized you were holding onto ghosts.

She was supposed to be at work today. The corporate merger had everyone walking on eggshells, layoffs whispered in break rooms. Her boss, a man who'd once compared himself to a fox—cunning, adaptable—had been caught embezzling. The office was a minefield of betrayed loyalties and forced smiles. Elena had called in sick instead. Some betrayals cut deeper than others.

The bear of depression had been hibernating in her chest for weeks, waking intermittently to remind her of its weight. Her therapist suggested small rituals. So she watered the garden. She fed Milo. She breathed.

Outside, the neighbor's fox darted across the fence, orange tail flashing. She'd seen it often lately—wild things adapting to suburban spaces, finding sustenance where they could. There was something admirable about that persistence.

Elena turned off the faucet. The house was quiet, but not empty—not really. Memory lived in these walls, in the overgrown spinach, in the way morning light hit the kitchen table. She would have to learn to live alongside it, the way foxes lived alongside humans, separate but sharing the same world.

She picked up Milo, who purred against her chest, and walked to the garden. Maybe she'd make spinach for dinner tonight. David would have wanted that.