The sun rises anyway, indifferent to absence, painting the same golden squares across your empty bed. Coffee brews in kitchens where your name will be spoken in past tense for the first time, voices breaking on the syllables. Your phone buzzes with messages that will never find you— lunch plans, inside jokes, the ordinary love of ordinary days. Someone will have to call your work, cancel your dentist appointment, decide what to do with the milk that expires next Tuesday. The world keeps its appointments while those who loved you learn to navigate the sudden geography of a life with you-shaped holes. Your favorite song plays on the radio in a car where someone weeps, remembering how you hummed along, fingers drumming the dashboard. The morning after is not an ending— it's the first day of everyone else learning to carry the weight of all your unfinished stories.