"Come on, dear, we love this!" her husband would insist, already getting ready to sing. Truthfully, he loved these sessions more, his singing voice not the best, but full of a joy that filled the room.
She lay on the sofa, propped on an elbow, watching him sing Sam Smith's "Fire on Fire" to the empty space between them. She stared and a soft smile on her lips, as he sang each note slightly off-key. She wasn't impressed by the singing, but she was deeply content.
Happier than ever.
She was his one and only audience. And though the singing wasn't always pleasant, she wished for a hundred more nights just like this. It was always the little things, she thought, that constantly rekindled the light.
