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.