I don't know why, but I keep thinking about how it’s been… what is it now, twelve weeks? Anyway, I was walking the east pasture, the one that dips down towards the creek, and I caught myself almost checking my watch, like he'd be waiting for me back at the house for coffee, asking about the south field drainage, even though he's been gone this long. That kind of pre-attentive action, you know, it’s not rational, not really, but it’s still there, this… echo. Does everyone have phantom limbs of their life? Like, after the divorce, when all the old friendships just… vanished, I had to build a whole new social schema from scratch at 50, which was its own kind of grief, but this feels different. More visceral. Less like a rebuilding and more like a permanent void. It's just... quiet now. Too quiet.