That sweet, doughy aroma wafted slowly up the staircase and traversed along the long twisting corridor until it reached my study. At first I could hardly believe my nostrils, "Amelia!" I gasped, my mouth gaping at the mere thought of my deceased wife's famous breakfast dish. I reminisced about those pleasant times when she would stand beside the stove wearing my ragged, old hoodie slowly flipping the little disks of dough until they turned a beautiful shade of golden-brown. When I smelled those pancakes I was so incredibly overwhelmed with immense euphoria. Until of course I awoke on the stained couch turned brown from neglect, and reality hit me harder than that soccer mom rear-ended her in a Toyota minivan going 70 on I-95. We didn't have any children and without her it seemed as though the light in my life had been dimmed, eternally. I had lost all hope of moving on, and my office job didn't have nearly as much appeal as it did when she was waiting for me at home. For as much as I tried to escape that feeling of depression I knew there was nowhere for me to run. This hopelessness tormented me and I paced slowly around the room following the ceiling fan like a tiger in a cage of my own creation.So as I tied the noose I thought to myself, I'll be making waffles with you soon my dear. I was completely sure that I was doing the right thing for I knew there was no reason to try for I had tried doing that for quite a while.