The yellow of the daffodils flirted with the soft breeze in the garden. Her hair fell on her face, covering one tear streaked eye, as she gazed, listlessly, with the other one. A deep, crimson bed of flowers lined the emerald garden outside their new home. Their new home. Where she’d live alone. For the rest of her life. He would have loved this house. Large attics to store the paintings. French windows for sunlight and for better ventilation. Broad overhanging eaves, and a big porch to sit on in the evening.

There were no last words spoken. There were no farewells. She held his hand and he looked at her. There was so much left unsaid. He bled. She wept. He died.

They had planned to move out of their eighth floor high-rise apartment. The traffic noise killed him, he’d say. Where to, she’d ask. Anywhere, he’d say, anywhere you want. And he would turn his back to her and paint. His paintings did well. They had earned a lot of money with his master strokes. But this set, he’d insist, would remain with them. In their dream house: a house he’d never ever see.

She wiped her eyes and looked out, at the great, old wall with ancient brick work.

He’s losing blood, and we’re losing him fast, they’d said. Can he talk? No.

She sat down and picked up the first painting, one of his last, slowly removing the newspaper that covered it. Daffodils. She uncovered the next one. A large porch with a man and a woman sitting across each other. The man looked like him. How could he know? How could he have seen this?

That’s because I never left you. Because I am here.

The dead man had spoken. The widow knelt and wept.