The soft murmur of water ran in the bathroom, steady and rhythmic, like a lullaby meant to soothe nerves I couldn't quite calm. I sat on the edge of the bed, folding a sweater Mark had discarded earlier. It was still faintly warm from his skin, and I held it a second longer than I needed to before placing it over the back of the chair.
The room was cloaked in golden light, the bedside lamp humming faintly. Shadows stretched lazily across the floor, brushing up the walls, soft and slow like everything in this space had exhaled. There was something sacred in the stillness, something I might have called peace—if only I didn't feel like I was waiting for something to crack.
From behind the bathroom door, I could hear him hum—a quiet, tuneless sound over the brushing of teeth. Mint and orange peel filled the room, that same toothpaste he always used. I'd grown to like it.
Grown to expect it.
