The first time it happened, she was ordering a latte. The opening chords of “Half of Our Song” drifted from the café speakers, and her heart performed a familiar, painful somersault. It was their song—the one they’d declared theirs after hearing it on a rain-soaked drive home, the one that had scored a hundred lazy Sundays and a thousand whispered promises.But as the verse began, something was wrong. The lyrics, once a perfect map of their love, now sounded hollow. The line, “I’ll be your shelter through the storm,” which he’d once sung to her while holding her during a