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She misses morning tea.
That's something she probably should have learned to do for herself some time in the last ten years, but it's so hard to convince yourself to learn the skill when your wife's already so damn good at it. She misses sipping slow, just left of scalding, calloused hands around the pot to pour another cup. She misses acting like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted, every morning, every time.
She misses a peck on the forehead and arms around her shoulders.
Supreme Witch is glory, sure, but it's lonely too without a whistling kettle.