When Ernesto last saw his wife, it was when she was being lowered into the ground.

It was a simple funeral. Only Ernesto and the apathetic priest were present when they laid her to rest in the solemn hill.

Euphemia, the deceased, had no other family other than her husband. So, he supposed that she might find rest with her ancestors and relatives in the afterlife. His final words to her, and the last he would ever say were, “I would give up anything to bring you back.” He was not certain how, but he knew she heard.

Unpracticed in grief, he hid himself from the world. His will and his very being began to rot with each passing day without her. He sat, motionless, in her favorite seat, an artisanal wooden chair that looked like it had been bought, sold, and forgotten many times.

This night, exactly one month after her death, Ernesto sat in that same chair next to a struggling oil lamp that flickered at his breath. As the light dimmed to darkness, he thought, “Why do I have this voice with no one to hear it?” As he drifted into sleep, he relinquished it.

The next morning, Euphemia sang a familiar tune and woke up her husband with a whisper. He woke up like one falls into freezing water and looked around to see his wife again. But no one was in the room with him.

“Ernesto, it’s me, your loving and grateful wife,” a voice said softly. Ernesto stared blankly in disbelief. “Thank you for your voice, cariño. You’ve given me more in death than you ever could in life.”

Ernesto gladly listened to his wife, unable to respond, but he was glad just to have company. While she talked for hours the first week, oddly asking questions about the world as if she had never lived before, she became silent again.

Euphemia woke up her husband the same way she did a month ago. With a song and then a whisper, she said, “Thank you for your voice, cariño. You’ve given me more in death than you ever could in life.” She paused. “But, I don’t feel connected to this world like I used to. Please, mi amor, give me your legs so I may walk this world again.”

Ernesto smiled, then frowned, looking down at his rarely used legs. He shuffled in his chair, huffed, and nodded in the direction he imagined his wife.

The next day, the sound of her footsteps filled the house like it used to, skidding and sliding across the tile floors. Coming from another room, she laughed and said “I used to sit in that chair all day, dreaming of a world outside. Now,” the voice and footsteps moved closer to Ernesto, “it is you who is stuck in my chair. Thank you, Ernesto.”

By the end of the month, the house fell silent again. Until, Euphemia woke her husband again, and conceded, “You’ve given me more in death than you ever could in life.”

This time, she asked for his arms, so that she may feel the world. A month later, she asked for his ears, so that she may hear life breathe, ache, and cry.

He gave and gave, month after month.

A year after her death, Euphemia looked at her favorite chair, thought of her melancholic husband who temporarily took her place, and said, “You’ve given me more in death than you ever could in life. Thank you, my husband.”