My hand trembles on the door handle of her writing room, the rattle echoing through our muted, empty house.
My mouth is dry. My ring finger aches.
This was her room.
The door moans open, the room lies untouched.
The counsellor said I need to clean out her desk, make a fresh start, move on.
But I collapse before it, longing to see her glinting eyes and mischievous grin as she reads me another story. Her typewriter sits silent and I weep.
The click-clack of keys revives me and her perfume thickens the air.
One word on the page.
Boo.