"You can't see someone you've lost. But sometimes, you feel them walking right beside you, in silence."
— Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Author's Note (Beginning):
Some chapters don't break your heart — they just leave a small, warm ache that stays behind in your chest long after you've finished reading. This one is like that. A quiet chapter, a soft page, but every word carries a weight for those who've ever had to keep living after someone else was gone.

⸻

I was discharged from the hospital on a softly sunlit morning.

There were no balloons.
No fanfare.
No one waiting at the gates.

Just a small bag, a few changes of clothes, my journal, and... the old silver umbrella I'd kept close all this time.

The doctor told me to stay near a medical center.
To eat carefully.
To avoid emotional distress.

I simply nodded.

Because I knew —
the one thing I must never do now...
was forget him.

⸻

I left the hospital after nearly ten years.

Not everyone would call that "survival."
To some, it was a miracle.
To me, it was a promise.

He had traded his life for me to have these extra days.
If I didn't live each second with my whole being,
then his sacrifice... would lose its meaning.

⸻

I chose to live near a small park.

Not too crowded.
A manmade lake.
A few old cherry trees.

I liked the stone benches — they reminded me of the old days.
Under the shade, with a worn book in hand, I opened the page he once marked for me:

"I love you, and I know love is just a shout into the void..."

I mouthed each word.
No tears came.
But my heart tightened like a violin string pulled one note too far.

⸻

Every morning, I still drew a cat on my window.

No one knew why.
No one noticed.

But to me, it was... habit.
A call.
A quiet appointment with someone who no longer remained here —
but whom I still believed was watching me from somewhere just out of reach.

⸻

One day, I took the bus into the city center.

For the first time in years, I sat beside strangers, heard the hum of street music, smelled fresh bread from sidewalk carts.

At a red light, I looked out the window.

And saw... a child.

They were drawing a cat on the fogged glass of the next bus.
Tiny finger tracing two pointy ears, a curled tail, round eyes.

Exactly like the cat I used to draw when I was seven.

I stared.
The child smiled faintly, not noticing anyone was watching.

I wasn't sure.
Didn't dare to be sure.

But something inside my chest... tugged.
Like someone had whispered my name.

⸻

I got off at the next stop.
My heartbeat still unsteady.

Leaning against the stair rail, I opened my little journal.
The last thing I had written read: "I will live."

Now I added:

"I'm still living.
For you.
For a love that was never named.
For the day I might meet someone who knows how to draw a cat with their left hand...
and I'll smile,
and think:
maybe you found a new body to live in —
even if just for months,
or one lifetime."

⸻

That night, it rained.

I sat indoors, opened the umbrella — right there in the middle of the room.

The old silver umbrella.
The one he once used to shield me from wind, from rain, from fear.

I never used it outside.
I only ever opened it at home, whenever I missed him.

My mother once said:
— "Opening an umbrella inside brings bad luck."

I just smiled:

— "But if this umbrella belonged to someone who once died so I could live...
then it's not bad luck.
It's a blessing."

⸻

That night, I dreamed again.

A white field.
No wind. No sound. No colour.

He stood there.
Still facing away.

But this time... I walked closer.
Didn't speak.
Didn't intrude.

Just stood a few steps behind.

I saw his hand move.
He was drawing a cat.

And then... he drew a circle around it.

An umbrella.

I wept in the dream.
Not from sorrow —
but from knowing:
he remembered.

⸻

I woke up.
The dream still clinging to my skin like mist.

I got up.
Walked to the window.
Fogged glass.

I reached out and drew another cat.
But this time... I added a circle around it.

An umbrella.

And for the first time in years, I said aloud:

— "I'm still here.
— I'm still living.
— And you're still in my heart.
Always."