The lamp on the
nightstand buzzed a low,
tired hum. She folded
his shirt, pressing the
crease with her thumb.
It still smelled like him
— soap and rain. She
pressed it to her face
and breathed in until her
chest ached.
The clock on the wall
ticked past midnight. The
shirt went into the
drawer, but her hand
stayed there, fingers
curled around the fabric.
I should have said it back.
The drawer clicked shut.
She turned off the lamp,
and the dark settled over
her like a blanket too
heavy to lift.