She Died at 34. I Still Set Her Alarm Every Morning.

It was 6:30 AM—the time I’d set her alarm for the last ten years. Every morning without fail, my phone buzzes with that same melody, a reminder of a life abruptly silenced at 34. She’s been gone for over two years now, but I still set her alarm every morning.

Some might think it’s strange—maybe even morbid—but for me, it’s a lifeline. It’s the invisible thread that ties the past to the present, the echo of a love that refuses to fade.


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The Beginning of Forever

I met her on a rainy October afternoon, the kind of day that felt heavy with promise. She was late, breathless from rushing, hair wild from the wind. I remember thinking she was the most beautiful mess I’d ever seen. Her laugh was infectious, and her spirit, unbreakable.

For ten years, we built a life filled with quiet mornings, loud arguments, and endless dreams. We fought about silly things—what to have for dinner, who forgot to take out the trash—but beneath it all was an unshakable bond.

She was my anchor and my storm, fierce in love and relentless in her ambition. At 34, she had already achieved more than most do in a lifetime. A career she loved, friends who adored her, and a family that was everything to her.


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The Sudden Silence

Then, one day, everything stopped. A call at 3 AM shattered the world I knew—she was gone. No warning. No goodbye. Just silence.

The weeks that followed were a blur of grief and disbelief. I went through her things, desperate to hold on to any piece of her. Among the scattered memories was her phone, still on, still alive with reminders of her daily routine.

That’s when I saw it—the alarm she set every morning at 6:30 AM, a simple act of preparation for the day ahead. I could almost hear her voice saying, “Don’t forget, you’ve got this.”


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A Ritual of Love

That morning, I set her alarm on my phone. It felt wrong, but also strangely comforting. The first time it went off, I almost cried. It was like hearing her say hello one more time.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and every morning at 6:30 AM, I heard that alarm ring. I’d silence it, but never delete it.

Some nights, I wonder if she’s out there, somewhere, waiting for that alarm to wake her. And maybe, in some way, it does.


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The Power of Memory

Setting her alarm is more than just a routine. It’s a promise—to remember her, to honor her, and to keep moving forward even when the weight of loss feels unbearable.

It reminds me of the mornings we shared: the coffee we never finished, the newspaper she always read first, the quiet moments before the chaos of the day.

Her alarm is a beacon. It keeps her close, even when she’s far away.


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What I’ve Learned

Losing her taught me that grief doesn’t have an expiration date. There’s no timeline for healing. Sometimes, it’s just about finding little ways to hold on.

The alarm is my small act of rebellion against the finality of death. It says, “You’re gone, but not forgotten.”

For anyone who has lost someone, I hope you find your own ‘alarm’—a ritual, a memory, a moment—that helps you carry their spirit forward.

Because love, real love, doesn’t end with goodbye. It lives in the things we do every day, in the quiet alarms that wake us to keep going.


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Epilogue

So, every morning, at exactly 6:30 AM, I hear her call. And I answer, setting my own alarm just a little later, for the life she dreamed I’d live.

She died at 34. But through that alarm, she wakes up with me every morning.