I open the door to her room, the room that remained locked for the last three years. The room smells of melancholy and grief, a reflection of what I felt everyday for the last three years. The bookshelf is covered in a pile of dust. Her collection of books, which she was so fond of, now remain in abandonment. The ceiling is enveloped in cobwebs. Her bed lay unmade, just as she left it that day.

The bright blue walls of the room now represent dullness and sorrow. The pictures on the wall appear faded, a sign of decay over time. Our picture together remains hung at the centre, atop the bed. The faces in the picture smile at me, but I do not feel happy enough to smile back.
I walk into the room,...