It was a gloomy afternoon, one where the sun hid behind the many layers of clouds, afraid to shine.

My flight from Bangkok arrived into Kuala Lumpur a little later than I would like. I found myself standing before the entrance of the Italian restaurant “Tatto”, staring at it blankly for a moment before dragging my feet into the place.

The façade of “Tatto” was glass and steel, concrete meets metal. The mood inside was a solemn one. The place was dimly lit and the dark coloured furnishings, befitting of the mood of the people present. Beyond the entrance, the restaurant was flanked by two sitting areas, filled with friends and family. Leading to the end of the walkway, sat a lady in black solitarily, in front of a platform framed with heavy drapes all through to the backdrop.

A platform where dear ones stood up to give thanks, reminisce and recount time spent with a dear friend, business partner, business competitor, respectable business mate, strict teacher, caring colleague, loving uncle who had impacted their lives with his wise words, teachings, advise and sharing or even just being a pranking partner in crime. A man who had left memorable, valuable footprints in their lives, a man who I too had the privilege to forge a friendship with.

Today, the couple is no more. The lady is alone. Armed with a napkin in her left hand, dabbing the tears that strayed from her eyes as she smiled and sometimes laughed letting the words shared by their dear friends bring to mind the scenes shared together. Forlorn tears dropped with every memory of each recount, the recollection of each scene and the reminder of each occurrence.

He was not beside her to offer a hug or hold her closer to plant a kiss on the side of her head lovingly and whisper in her ears his comforting words, “Everything is going to be alright, Baby… Everything will be alright. Nothing is broken.” The absence of her significant half was ever more pronounced. Her tears flowed a little more freely every now and then, like a barrage with a leaky dam. Her broken heart sparsely held together by thin silk threads.

My heart squeezed as I looked upon her willowy back view and allowed myself to imagine what she was going through. The pain of a gaping heart overwhelmed me as I choked in my own mixed emotions of pain, loss, desolation and nothingness. I tear for the loss of a friend and cried even harder for her loss of him.

The memorial closed with these words, “I am still his wife. I am still Mrs. Jung. I may be his widow but our love does not end here. Death does not part us.” She stood straighter on the platform to dedicate a toast to him and urged their friends and love ones to celebrate his