As the golden years of her life unfolded, Emily chose to wed a solitary retiree. Half an hour before the vows, a chime echoed through her home. She swung the door open, struck silent by what she saw…

In a cozy apartment, dim light filled the space, with only the glow from an electric fireplace flickering across the logs, softly illuminating the room. Emily sat in her favorite rocking chair, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames. She had always dreamed of having a fireplace.

But a real one wasn’t practical in a one-bedroom apartment in a high-rise. Thankfully, someone invented a device that mimicked the flames of a real fireplace and even warmed the room during chilly seasons. The chair creaked faintly as it rocked, blending seamlessly with Emily’s thoughts.

They say when someone passes, you hold memorials only for the first year, then celebrate their birthdays. But Emily always marked both her husband’s birthday and the day he left this world. Today marked ten years since she lost her beloved husband, James.

Just one year shy of their fortieth anniversary and two months from his sixtieth birthday. Earlier, she visited the church to light candles, then stopped by neighbors—friends they’d lived alongside for over thirty years—bringing pies and candies to share memories of her Jimmy. Then, as always, she retreated to her thoughts. Emily sat, gazing at the fire, a soft smile on her face as she remembered her Jimmy.

On the fireplace mantel stood his photograph, his joyful smile captured forever. Emily remembered snapping that picture the day she told him they were expecting a child. Their meeting was a story in itself. James was a part-time courier, working his way through college with night classes, while Emily had stayed home sick that day, skipping her own classes.

Her mom tucked her into bed, insisting she drink warm milk with honey. The doorbell rang, and Emily, throat wrapped in a scarf, shuffled to answer it. A short, lanky guy stood there, holding a package.

“Wilsons live here?” he asked cheerfully. “No Wilsons here!” Emily croaked, moving to shut the door. But the quick-footed guy wedged his foot in. “Hold on, hold on! No Wilsons? This your address?” “Yeah, it’s mine.”

“Then take what’s sent for you.” “Why would I take something meant for the Wilsons?” Emily rasped, her sore throat making her desperate to end the exchange.

“How do I know you’re not the Wilsons? Show me your ID!” he demanded, deadpan. Eager to get rid of the pushy visitor, Emily grabbed her ID. “Here, look!” She shoved it in his face.

He read her name and address, flipped the page, and nodded. “Well, alright,” he drawled, “my mistake. I’ll just write, ‘No such person at this address.’” With a wink, he bolted down the stairs. A week later, Emily stepped outside and spotted the same bold guy on a bench by her building…