The cottage felt empty after Jackson left.
I found myself wandering from room to room, touching surfaces he'd touched, as if I could summon him back through muscle memory. In the bedroom, his t-shirt lay crumpled on the bed—the one he'd worn that morning, still holding traces of his warmth. I picked it up and pressed it to my face, breathing him in. It smelled like fig soap and something indefinably Jackson. For a moment, it was almost like he was still here.
But the illusion shattered when I realised I was standing alone in an empty room, clutching fabric like a lifeline.
I needed tea. Something to calm the restless energy thrumming under my skin. In the kitchen, I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then stood staring out the window at the darkening sky. Somewhere out there, Ja
