Something New

By Peter Bowden

The sun came up clean and bright over the hills. He made coffee and fried eggs in a pan that still had the memory of old breakfasts. There had been dark mornings before—long ones, gray and quiet—but this one had light in it. He opened the window and the air smelled of grass and warm earth. There was a knock at the door. It was her. She smiled like she meant it. She brought bread and jam and two cups for coffee. He liked that she didn’t try too hard. She just showed up.

They walked after breakfast. Down the path past the birch trees, where the wind moved through the leaves and the birds called like they knew something good was coming. She asked about his dog, not his past. He liked that, too. Her hand brushed his and she let it stay there. He hadn’t known how much he missed that. The simple warmth of another person. Not the old kind of fire, but something different. Something steady and new.

It did not feel like a betrayal. That surprised him most. He still carried the love he lost, like a stone in his pocket, smooth from years of holding. But this—this was something else. Light and full of life. A hand to hold on the hill at sunset. Laughter in the kitchen. The world had cracked open once, and it might again. But for now, there was bread and jam, and coffee for two, and that was enough.

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