A single second.

That’s all it takes for a glass to slip from trembling fingers, to shatter against the cold kitchen tile. For silence to be replaced by the sharp gasp of realization, the rush of regret. One second, and something whole becomes something broken.

She stares at the shards, at the way they scatter like tiny stars across the floor. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t irreplaceable. But it was the last thing of his she had left—the cup he used every morning, the one he grumbled about being too small for his coffee but never replaced.

A second ago, it was just a cup.
Now, it’s a reminder that he’s gone.