Long time no read, huh?

Sorry about that.

(The quote is from the official Richard Castle website. I twisted it. And for that I apologize.)

"A part of her stays with me and informs everything I do. That is the mark of a truly great muse."

It's sunny.

He always thinks it's a little odd – it's sunny every time he comes here. He'll tell himself the night before that he's going to go and just like that it's suddenly the next morning and the sun is breaking through the early morning clouds until there's hardly any left at all, streaming in through the windows and kissing the floor of the loft softly.

He wakes just after the sun rises. It's a habit he picked up from her. Even on those coveted days off, she was up early, and he'd wake to find her sweaty from her morning run, drinking coffee in the kitchen, or doing yoga in the middle of the living room. Or sometimes he'd wake to her curled up next to him, her fingers trailing over his chest, her body flush against his and he liked those mornings best, because he got to help her get rid of all her pent up energy.

She was up early, so he was up early, too.

It's sunny now. It always is. The sky cleared up while he was making his coffee this morning, coming up with a plan for the day. It was still shining after he showered and shaved, after he pulled his sport coat out of his closet, after he fixed his cuffs and slid his ring onto his finger.

He catches a taxi to the florist and they're not surprised to see him. They greet him by name, comment on how lovely the weather is and he smiles, tells them it always is. He takes the same taxi to the cemetery and that's not a surprise either. He doesn't come here often, he doesn't need to. He replaces the flowers on the grave when the old ones start to die, deep red roses and bright yellow lilies, lovely purple irises and stark white stargazers. He buys her flowers because she never let him when she was alive unless it was for a special occasion, but he would have covered every square inch of the loft with them if she would have let him because she loved them, and they made her smile.

He liked to make her smile.

The sunlight glances off the white washed stone and he lets his fingers dust over it. He can't sit down anymore, it hurts his knees to get up, and he doesn't come here often, but he's been known to stand here all day.

He doesn't come often because she's not here.

He doesn't feel her here – running his fingers over her name. She's not here.

Only her bones are here now.

That's probably morbid of him, but it helps because she was so much more than anything her body could ever contain. He feels her in the loft, their home. He feels her kiss in every cup of coffee he drinks, the warm scent of vanilla he indulges in every now and again when he misses her just a little too much. He feels her in the photographs he took to hanging up around the loft, her wedding portrait on his dresser– the carefree woman he married – her headshot in her dress blues on his desk – the hardworking, just police officer who he fell in love with. He feels her in the books in his drawer – He's retired, Nikki got her happy ending years ago – but sometimes he writes her letters in the margins, re-reads the words she inspired so many years ago and tells her how much he loved her, both of them, Nikki and Kate. He can't love one without the other because Nikki kept him company until Kate was finally ready, and he loves that she loved Nikki, too. He feels her in her rings in the dish next to his own, her, her favorite heels he still keeps sitting next to his shoes on the floor of his closet because he can't bear to get rid of them, the pillow on the bed that is still undeniably and forever hers.

He feels her there.

He feels her when it's sunny.