“Good morning, my love,” Mercy whispered into the silence, waiting for an answer that never came. Two months had passed since Carl died, but she still poured his coffee, set his plate, and danced to their song. Neighbors whispered she lived with a ghost. Only one man saw the grief beneath the routine.
Golden rays of the morning sun crept through lace curtains as 75-year-old Mercy rose from her bed, just as she had done every day for the past 50 years. Her weathered hands smoothed the other side of the bed — her beloved Carl’s side — still pristine and unwrinkled.
5:30 a.m. Right on schedule. The silence in the room felt heavy, broken only by the ticking of the antique wall clock he had restored for their 25th anniversary.
A smiling older woman sitting on her bed on a pleasant morning | Source: Midjourney
“Good morning, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling with morning dew. “Another beautiful day together, isn’t it?” She paused, as if waiting for his familiar morning grunt and sleepy smile. Her fingers traced the empty space where his warmth should have been.
Each step across the hardwood floors echoed with memories — their children’s first steps, countless midnight dances, and the way he would chase her through the halls even in their sixties, both of them giggling like teenagers.
She shuffled to the old mahogany cabinet where their prized possession sat — a vintage Victrola gramophone that Carl had restored decades ago. Her fingers traced the intricate woodwork, remembering how he’d spent months hunting down each perfect piece.
A vintage gramophone on the table | Source: Unsplash
“Remember when you found this at that little antique shop in Vermont?” she murmured, carefully lifting the needle. “You were so excited, you couldn’t sleep for days, planning how to restore it. ‘This’ll be our legacy,’ you said. ‘Our grandkids will play this at their weddings.'”
The familiar crackle of the needle hitting vinyl filled the room, and Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade began to play. The notes floated through the morning air, each one carrying a different memory.
“Our song,” Mercy smiled, swaying gently. “Remember how we danced to this at our wedding? You were so handsome in your navy suit, even though your mother insisted on black. ‘I’m not going to look like I’m attending my own funeral on the happiest day of my life,’ you said, laughing.”
Mercy chuckled softly, then felt tears prick at her eyes. “You always knew how to make me laugh, didn’t you, my love… my sweet rascal?!”
A cheerful and nostalgic older woman dancing in her house | Source: Midjourney
Back in the kitchen, her morning routine continued with precision. Two coffee cups, as always. The blue one with the chip on the handle — Carl’s favorite, from their trip to Maine for their 30th anniversary. He’d refused to let her throw it away even after it got damaged.
“You said it had character now,” she spoke to the empty chair at the table. “Just like us, you said. ‘A few chips and cracks, but still perfect.’ Oh, Carl, you and your silly metaphors!”
One black coffee with a touch of sugar for him, just the way he liked it. Her arthritic fingers trembled slightly as she arranged his breakfast plate with scrambled eggs and toast cut diagonally, no crust. She’d teased him for 50 years about eating his toast like a child, and he’d always responded with the same wink and smile.
A delighted older lady setting the table with breakfast and a cup of black coffee | Source: Midjourney
“Breakfast is ready, darling!” she called out, her voice echoing through the empty house. “I made your eggs extra fluffy today. Remember how you taught me the secret? ‘A splash of cream,’ you’d say, ‘makes everything better.’ You were right about that, weren’t you? You were right about so many things.”
he smiled faintly. “Do you love it, darling?”
Nothing. Only silence. Grave silence.
Except for the gramophone, its soft crackling filling the room like a distant memory. Glenn Miller’s saxophone wept in the background, but Carl… Carl wasn’t answering. He wasn’t there to answer. He was long gone.
Framed photo of a deceased man on a table adorned with glowing candles and flowers | Source: Midjourney
In the living room, propped in his favorite armchair — the worn leather recliner their children had pooled together to buy him for his 60th birthday — sat the effigy Mercy had crafted with such loving care. To others, it was nothing more than fabric and stuffing, a strange, pitiful thing.
But to Mercy, it was Carl. Her beloved Carl.
The world said he was gone. But to her, he was right there, sitting where he always had.
A photograph of an older man pinned to an effigy made of cotton and fabric stuffing | Source: Midjourney
Using old quilting cotton, soft pillow stuffing, and the padding from their spare winter coats, she’d shaped him as best she could. Every curve and contour lovingly molded to match her memories of Carl’s form.
His checkered flannel shirt, the one he wore every Sunday for church, draped perfectly over the cotton-stuffed shoulders. His pressed khakis — freshly ironed just two days ago — hung over the lifeless fabric legs.
The brown cardigan she’d given him last Christmas, with the leather buttons he’d admired in the store window for weeks before she surprised him with it, completed his outfit. She’d spent hours getting the stuffing just right, making sure he sat the way he always did, slightly slouched to the left, the way his back had been since their gardening accident in ’92.
“You always said that slouch gave you character,” she whispered, adjusting the cardigan. “Our daughter said it made you look distinguished.”
A delighted older lady looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
A photograph of his smiling face was pinned where a head should be — taken at their granddaughter Sarah’s graduation last spring. His eyes crinkled at the corners in that special way that had made her fall in love with him at the church social dance in 1973.
“You’re quiet this morning,” Mercy said, setting his coffee down and smoothing his cardigan. “Thinking about the big birthday celebration coming up? Seventy-eight is quite a milestone.”
She perched on the arm of his chair, the way she used to every evening. “Remember how we always joked about becoming the neighborhood’s oldest lovebirds? ‘We’ll be those crazy old folks who still hold hands at the grocery store,’ you said. Well, we made it, didn’t we? We’re still those crazy old folks.”
