Keith
Hope’s childhood room smells like her.
Lavender. A trace of old paper and lemon balm.
The air is stale with mourning, too quiet to be real. I stand in front of her dresser, buttoning the dark collar of a suit I never wanted to wear.
My hands shake, but I keep moving.
Mechanical. Precise.
One button after another.
The tie is next.
Black on black.
Death’s uniform.
She would have hated this.
The pale sunlight creeping through the lace curtains throws fractured light across the room, glinting off the small glass animals still perched on her shelves.
I catch my reflection in her mirror—haunted eyes, jaw set too tight, dark hair slicked back too carefully. I don’t look like myself. I look like the man expected to bury the girl he loves.
I breathe in sharply and close my eye
