The first time I saw my husband die was on a Wednesday.

I remember because I’d been late for my lecture—the quantum entanglement seminar I taught to a dozen glassy-eyed postgrads who’d rather be anywhere else—and I’d forgotten my presentation clicker. Marcus, ever reliable, was bringing it to my office.

He waved from across the street, that familiar smile I’d woken up to for eight years. The clicker was in his hand, held up like a trophy he’d won just for me. That’s when the blue sedan jumped the curb.

I screamed. I must have. My throat was raw afterward. But in that moment, I heard nothing. Not the impact. Not the screeching tires. Not the horrified gasps from the students around me. Just a perfect, pristine silence as if the universe itself had paused to acknowledge that something fundamental had been altered.

I remember falling to my knees. I remember hands on my shoulders. I remember someone saying they’d called an ambulance.

What I don’t remember is going home. Yet somehow, that’s where I found myself at 7:13 that evening, sitting at our kitchen table, staring at the half-empty cup of coffee Marcus had left that morning. The surface tension had broken; a thin film had formed. Four hours and twenty-two minutes, I calculated absently. That’s how long coffee stays warm in a ceramic mug under standard atmospheric conditions.

At 7:14, I heard his key in the lock.

“Sorry I’m late,” Marcus called from the hallway. “Department meeting ran long. Have you eaten?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He was dead. I had watched him die.

He appeared in the doorway, very much alive, his brow furrowed with concern.

“El? You okay?”

And that’s when I noticed it—the quantum measurement problem made manifest in my kitchen. His tie was blue. The tie he’d been wearing that morning, when he’d kissed me goodbye, when he’d died right in front of me, had been red.