I own nothing. Big thanks to my beta I _ Was_ BOTWP for making what I write better. It makes all the difference.
The house was the same. Everything looked the same. The windows and drapes seemed to be at the right places from the outside. The familiar tilt of The Burrow was unchanged; the front door was waiting to be opened like it always had been. It had always been a welcoming place, yearning for visitors and family alike to fill it with joy and laughter. Molly welcomed everyone with open arms, listening ears and baked goods to soothe their every worry. Everything was the same, except that she was not there.
Walking into the house, it seemed the same. But looking up, her face was missing. Upstairs, the carpets were in the usual places at the top of each landing, the bed was in its place in their room and her clothes were still in her closet. But the sound of her fixing her hair was missing from the bathroom, the bustle of beds being made was gone and the silence left behind echoed so loudly it was deafening. In the kitchen, the wizarding wireless was playing some old song, like every other day, but there were no knitting needles clicking together and her off-key humming was missing from the once familiar song. Gone was the soft clatter of dishes scrubbing themselves while the smell of baking filled the air. It almost felt like all the warmth had gone with her.
He was sitting there, not knowing whether to cry or heave a relieved sigh. The empty house was bound to be a very lonely place. Realistically, he knew it wouldn't be empty. Years ago now, a few of the great-grandkids had moved in after leaving Hogwarts, as much to help them out with the upkeep of the Burrow as for a chance at a little bit of freedom from their parents in their late teens and early 20s. As the first one grew up and moved on, others took their places. It wasn't difficult to find a few willing souls, with 5 living generations of Weasley descendants. It had kept Molly happy to have people to cook for and dote on. The current batch were a couple of Victoire's grand-daughters and he was certain they'd be willing to stay.
What he wasn't certain about was whether he could bear to stay himself now that she was gone. What would he do with all the memories? The thought of having to share their space with thoughts and memories of her every day left an ache in his chest that seemed to weigh on him until he could barely breathe.
It was funny how he had never noticed before the things about her he was missing now. These things had become part of the daily picture they had shared for more than a hundred years. How was it even possible, to spend a hundred years with someone and still go on living when they had died? He should have known what he would miss. These little things were what made her the person she was. He had loved her, he still did. How could he possibly live without her?
He knew he would manage somehow. He had so many caring loved ones looking out for him. He wondered if they could sense what he did: that his time was also growing short, that he wouldn't be separated from his beloved for very long. He was already at peace with his life and had nothing to fear from death. But he knew he had to wait, and so for now he missed her.
My grandparents married in their teens and had a happy life together for over 40 years. When I was a teen, we lost my grandmother at the age of 59. I watched my grandfather struggle with the loss of a person he'd spent vastly more of his life with than without and it left a mark. This piece is dedicated to my grandmother's memory and to the grandfather I love and cherish so much, who is still missing her today, 18 years later.