Married for just a year, yet every night her husband slept in his mother’s room.

Inside the dimly lit room, Grace’s eyes widened, struggling to comprehend the scene unfolding before her. In the faint glow of a bedside lamp, Ethan was sitting at the edge of his mother’s bed, reading aloud from a worn, leather-bound journal.

Mrs. Turner, propped up by an array of pillows, was listening intently, her eyes closed, her face a mask of serenity.

The journal was filled with letters and stories, penned by Mr. Turner during his lifetime. Every night, Ethan read these stories to his mother, honoring a tradition that began the year his father died.

Mr. Turner had been an avid writer, capturing the essence of family adventures, his love for his wife, and musings about life. For Mrs. Turner, these words were a lifeline to a past filled with love and companionship, a past that insomnia cruelly robbed her of, night after night.

Ethan paused, placing a gentle hand over his mother’s. The whispers Grace had heard were echoes of his father’s voice, brought to life by Ethan’s tender readings. The journal wasn’t just a collection of stories; it was a bridge connecting the past to the present, a healing balm for a grieving widow.