Part 1 in a heartfelt short story series by Dave Hibbins
Mary stirred the teaspoon in her coffee long after the sugar had dissolved.
The clink of metal against ceramic echoed in the silent kitchen—sharp and rhythmic, like a thought she couldn’t finish. The kettle hissed on the counter behind her, and a bird outside flitted along the garden fence, pecking at seeds from a feeder she hadn’t refilled in days.
Sunlight slanted through the window. Pale. Half-hearted.
The house felt like it always did lately: too clean, too quiet, too careful.
From the hallway, her husband’s footsteps thudded toward the door. He didn’t pause when he passed behind her—just grabbed his keys, adjusted his collar in the hallway mirror, and left.
No kiss. No greeting.
Just the soft click of the door behind him.
Mary blinked. Took a sip of her coffee. It had gone cold.
She spent the morning working through her inbox. Invoices. Deadlines. Auto-reminders from old mailing lists she hadn’t unsubscribed from. A discount on teeth whitening. An offer to buy back unused yoga credits. None of it required her. She just clicked and scrolled, letting her eyes pass over the lines like a swimmer skimming the surface of something dark.
Lunch came and went without ceremony—an apple, a slice of toast, eaten while standing at the counter.
By afternoon, the laundry was folded but not put away, the bathroom wiped but not fully cleaned, and the same podcast played through twice before she realized she hadn’t heard a word of it.
At 4:15, Mary found herself standing in the spare room.
It wasn’t really a guest room anymore. No one visited. The bed was made but never touched, the shelves dusted but unused. On the top shelf above the desk, a stack of old photo albums tilted sideways like forgotten memories holding each other up.
She pulled one down, sat cross-legged on the carpet, and let the pages fall open.
Andrea was everywhere.
In every frame—laughing, smirking, leaping mid-air off logs, arms wrapped around Mary, grinning like she knew something no one else did. Her hair was always a little wild. Her eyes never quite stayed still.
There was one photo where they were maybe ten, maybe eleven—wrapped in sleeping bags on a trampoline, pretending they were lost in the mountains. Andrea had drawn a fake moustache on with eyeliner and was holding a stick like it was a mountaineer’s pole. Mary had a pillowcase tied around her head like a bandana and a crumpled brochure for Nepal in her lap.
“Someday, we’re going to Nepal,” Andrea had declared that night, pointing to a page in one of her travel books.
Mary had scoffed. “I’ll stay at the hotel and wave from the window.”
Andrea had rolled her eyes, already tossing trail mix into the air and catching it in her mouth.
“You’ll see,” she said. “Even you have an adventurer in there somewhere.”
Mary smiled faintly now, touching the edge of the photo.
Even you.
The call came on a Thursday.
Mary was slicing cucumbers for a salad she didn’t want when her phone rang. She almost didn’t answer. But the number was familiar—Andrea’s mother.
The voice on the other end wasn’t tearful. It was hollow. Like the grief had drained the color from everything, even the sound.
“There’s been an accident,” the voice said. “A drunk driver… she was on her bike… they said it was quick.”
Mary didn’t speak. Didn’t drop the phone. Didn’t scream.
She just stood there, cucumber still in one hand, and stared at the tile floor until her husband came home and found her like that—frozen in a silent kitchen, the knife drying by the sink, the salad untouched.
The funeral was on a gray, windless morning. Spring pretending to be winter.
Mary sat in the second row, next to Andrea’s brothers, watching a slideshow flicker across the screen. Every image was loud with life—Andrea dancing in the rain, making silly faces in a market in Sri Lanka, holding a mug of hot cocoa half the size of her head in the Alps.
The eulogy was short and unfinished. How do you summarize someone like Andrea? Someone who felt like summer and thunder and sunrise all at once?
At the reception, Andrea’s mother pressed a small wooden box into Mary’s hands. It was smooth and light. Warm from being held all morning.
“She would have wanted you to have this,” she said.
Mary stared down at it. “I don’t understand.”
“You were more than cousins,” the woman said. “You were soulmates.”
Mary couldn’t speak. Her fingers gripped the urn as if it might float away otherwise.
“There was something else.” Andrea’s mother pulled a folded page from her purse. It was crumpled from handling—one of the printouts from Andrea’s dream board.
It was a photo of a turquoise lake at the foot of the Himalayas.
Gokyo Ri.
“This was her favorite,” her mother said. “She kept it everywhere—in her planner, on the fridge, tucked into her passport. She said if she ever got there, she’d finally feel at peace.”
Mary unfolded the page and stared at the image.
A glacial lake. A backdrop of white peaks. Prayer flags strung across a rock cairn like whispered wishes.
“She never got to go,” her mother added, gently. “But maybe… maybe you could take her?”
The ashes sat on Mary’s dresser for weeks.
She couldn’t bring herself to open the lid. Couldn’t accept that someone like Andrea could fit inside something so small. So final.
She left the box there—dust collecting on its corners—while she went through the motions of being fine.
Some nights, she’d open Andrea’s old guidebooks, pages marked with sticky notes and doodles. Little hearts. Lists of local foods. “Magical sunrise spot?” scribbled next to a ridge photo. “Blue Lake = actual heaven???”
Mary would smile at the notes, close the book, and set it beside the bed.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
It was nearly a month later—on a day when the sky couldn’t decide whether to rain or just sulk—when Mary finally stepped into the Resurgence Travel office.
She didn’t have an appointment. She didn’t know what she was going to say.
But she walked in anyway.
It was tucked between a stationery shop and a dentist’s office. A modest glass door, a wood-carved sign, and a large wall map just visible through the window. The bell above the door jingled softly as she entered.
A man in his early thirties looked up from behind the counter.
“Hi there,” he said, setting his coffee aside. “What can I help you with?”
“I… wanted to ask about Nepal,” she said. “A place called Gokyo Ri.”
His expression lit with recognition. “Ah. One of the most beautiful treks in the Khumbu. Lakes, glaciers, views of Everest without the Everest crowd. You a trekker?”
She hesitated. “No. Not even close.”
He smiled, more measured this time. “Well, it’s a serious one. High altitude. Remote villages. Several days above 4,000 meters. It’s not for first-timers, to be honest.”
Mary unfolded a printout from her coat pocket and placed it on the desk. “My cousin… she always dreamed of going. She died recently. I have her ashes. I want to take her there.”
The man’s expression softened, but his reply was careful. “I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. Gokyo is meaningful to a lot of people. But… it’s demanding. Physically, mentally. You’d need to train. And even then, altitude sickness can affect anyone. We sometimes recommend lower treks for first journeys—Poon Hill, maybe? Or Khopra Ridge?”
Mary nodded, her face blank. “I understand.”
He slid a brochure across the counter. “Have a look. Read about the regions. If you decide to go ahead, we’ll help you plan something that fits.”
She took the brochure without meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”
Then she stepped outside into the damp air, brochure clutched in one hand, coat collar drawn up. It hadn’t rained—but it felt like it might.
That night, she opened a bottle of wine and sat on the floor of the living room. The house was quiet. Her husband was working late again. The TV murmured something forgettable in the background.
She stared at the image on the brochure. The lake. The mountains. The sky that Andrea had circled in blue ink once, writing: “Someday.”
She hadn’t said the word “no” in the travel office.
But she hadn’t said “yes” either.
She wasn’t ready.
Maybe she wasn’t brave enough. Maybe Andrea had been wrong—maybe the adventurer she once teased out of Mary had never been there at all.
She swirled the wine, not drinking it. Just listening to the silence press closer around her.
Eventually, she laid back against the carpet, arms loose at her sides, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come quickly. But when it did—it came with wind.
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