The Remaining Prepper.

A man whose wife is in a care home with dementia, visits the seaside place they usually went together.

He sat where they used to sit. The scenery was as it was when they last came. He even chose the same boarding house to stay at, having written before hand that it would be just him to stay. The weather was good and warm. But he sensed her absence even more now, looking alone at what they used to see together and comment on. Now he sat thinking of her and looking at the old familiar scene. Something was missing and it was her presence beside him. At breakfast he had sat alone at the table eating the breakfast thinking of where she used to sit, and their own conversations, private affairs. Now it seemed so empty, what once had brought enjoyment now brought home to him that emptiness of her absence. He watched people on the beach enjoying the sun and being together, running into the sea, playing ball games. They had brought their own children here when they were young, played with them,  walked with them to paddle in the sea. Now they had grown and had children of their own. He ate at the restaurant they used to go, but it had changed and the prices had risen and the staff new. He stood on the beach watching the sunset, listening to the gulls, and the voices of the few remaining people on the sands, young ones laughing holding hands.