The forgotten letter

He stopped waiting for the postman the day he received the last letter from the hospital. Back then, he had no idea that a small argument could cost a life. Elizabeth. His wife. His everything. He remembered that day down to the smallest detail. Everything had burned into his memory so deeply that he could still recall the exact order of the silverware on the dish rack. The warm morning sunlight in the kitchen, the smell of coffee, the new tie Elizabeth had given him “for good luck.” That day, everything felt right — as if life itself was smiling at him. Ben had even gotten a promotion. He hurried home, imagining how Elizabeth’s lips would curve into a smile before she pulled him into a soft kiss. But instead, there was her voice — sharp, tired, edged. “You left the kitchen a mess again,” she said. At first he stayed silent, then tried to say something — useless. He still wanted so badly to make her happy, to tell her that now they could afford more — maybe buy a car or finally change the wallpaper throughout the house. The only thing he wished for was Elizabeth’s happiness. But her words fell like hail — cold, precise and sharp as a knife. He knew he was at fault, but couldn’t understand how everything had suddenly gone wrong. Somewhere between "you never listen" and "I’m tired of this," something inside him cracked. He tried to hold himself back, but couldn’t. Elizabeth stood by the door, trembling with anger. "You know what, Ben? Do whatever you want." Her fingers shook as she grabbed her coat, her eyes blazing with fury. Ben was afraid to look directly into them — afraid of seeing something that could destroy their perfect life. He wanted to say "wait," or "don’t go," but pride won. Instead, the words that escaped were: "Fine. Go clear your head." The door slammed so hard the walls quivered — and his heart did too. They had never any argument before. Everything had been so perfect it felt almost sinful to wish for more. He stood in the hallway, staring at her scarf left hanging on the coat rack. For a moment he almost ran after her — almost — but didn’t. He let her go, and that turned out to be his fatal mistake. Five minutes passed. Ten. He made himself tea, trying to calm down. Outside, the drizzle thickened, and still, Beth hadn’t returned. He began to worry but couldn’t bring himself to dial her number. He told himself it would be fine. It always was. Two hours passed. Still no sign of her. The rain poured down harder, drumming on the windows. He should have realized something was wrong. But hope is a stubborn thing. Half an hour later, the phone rang. That damned call split his life into before and after. A calm, unfamiliar voice said, "This is St. James’s Hospital. Are you a relative of Elizabeth Morris?" And suddenly the world went completely silent. Even the rain seemed to stop making noise. He didn’t remember how he got to the address they gave him — only the wet asphalt under his feet, and the raindrops that felt warmer than her hand when he touched it for the last time. He would never forget the emptiness in her eyes. His Elizabeth. His, forever.