After my wife Kate’s death, I often called her number to hear her on the answering machine. Once, the machine cut off, and I distinctly heard her say, “What are you doing? No!” before the call ended. Convinced it was her, I began investigating.It was a normal Sunday, and I sat in “Paprika,” a small café in the city’s heart. The area was full of life, and the smell of coffee and pastries filled the air. People laughed and talked. The baristas moved smoothly, always smiling as they worked, and music played softly in the background.But I felt alone. This café was special to Kate and me. We came here every weekend for seven years. Without her, everything felt different. The warmth didn’t reach me. Every corner reminded me of her. Our first date, her birthdays, her favorite cinnamon roll.