Sadie’s dry whisper clung to the curtains like the dust that has settled after weeks of the forgotten diligence he remembered her for. Sitting in the chair where she once held vigil every night with her books and her poetry, he feels her presence, her warmth, on the cushion. He holds her last book of poetry open and on the page faint scribbles. And in the illegible scratchings he hears her murmur’s soft breath of a secret laugh. Hanging from a knob of her dresser is the cameo necklace he bought for her when they were so young it was like a dream as faded as the wallpaper.
He slipped his big toes into the dainty slippers laid out in front of the chair. They beckoned him as she often did when she needed a drink or snack and could not be torn from her reveries. As he got up the cushion stretched out from his weight revealing a smaller version of his form. Crawling under the covers of the bed, he felt a cold that was familiar and comforting. She stayed in her chair long after he fell into the depths of slumber. As the clock struck midnight he awoke to feel a warmth in his chest and a sigh in his soul.