It's not a big deal, really. Just something... you know. After the funeral, you're alone. The house is quiet. Too quiet, maybe. For so long, it was always... her soft hum from the kitchen, or the rustle of her turning a page. Now? Just the hum of the refrigerator. So you sit, like you always do, in your old chair. The one by the window. You fold your hands. You close your eyes. And you try to pray. Like you’ve done every night for fifty years. More. Decades, really. Since before... well, since before most of you were even born, probably. You’ve served the congregation. Counseled, preached, buried, married. All of it. And then... nothing. Just this hollow spot. Like a cavity in your chest. Not sadness, not exactly. More like... a sudden, acute absence of something fundamental. A kind of... spiritual anhedonia, I suppose. You wait for it. The comfort, the sense of connection. The usual... presence. And it just isn't there. It's like calling a number you’ve memorized, only to hear the disconnected tone. Or worse, just silence. Empty air. You open your eyes, blink at the dust motes dancing in the lamplight. It’s not a crisis of faith, not really. More like... a temporary disruption in service. A server error, perhaps. Or maybe the connection’s just... bad tonight. You try again. You murmur the words. The familiar pleas, the gratitude, the supplication. And still... that emptiness. You recall a time, years ago, when you felt something similar. A kind of spiritual aridity, back then. But that was different. That was doubt, an intellectual wrestle. This... this feels more like a physical phenomenon. Like a phantom limb, perhaps. A limb that was always there, an integral part of your being, and now... just the space where it used to be. You tell yourself it's fatigue. Grief. The sheer, exhausting weight of everything. You tell yourself it will pass. That the circuits will reconnect. You have to believe that, don't you? It's just... unsettling. To feel so... utterly alone. Even in the one place you always felt connected.