In the living room, her fingers drifted across the piano. “Oh, he kept this too. I used to play every night after dinner. He hated it at first… said it distracted him from work. But after a while, he’d just sit there, listening.”
Her smile deepened. “Does he still do that? Sit here while you play?”
I said nothing. I couldn’t.
She strolled toward the shelf, tracing the spine of an old vinyl record. “My favorite album,” she murmured. “He used to say it was too melancholic. Funny how men pretend to forget what they can’t let go of.”
I followed her quietly, every word of hers slicing through me. My home didn’t feel like mine anymore. Every corner, every sound, every detail? It all belonged to her first.
Then she went to the bedroom.
She opened the wardrobe and let her fingers graze the neatly folded shirts. “He’s still using the linen ones. I bought those for him in Florence. He swore he’d never wear anything that soft, but look at him now.” She glanced at me over her shoulder, her smile sweet as honey. “You must take good care of them. He likes his things kept just the way I left them.”