Maya's Pov
I woke up alone. Again. The other bed was empty and the blankets swept back as if he'd never lain in it to begin with. But the pillow spoke otherwise.
I did laundry in the morning, lost in the quiet rhythm of motion. There was something strangely calming to it—the silky flow of cotton, the crisp creases opening up like small victories. Sami's tiny socks, the blue ones with superheroes that had faded. Lee's blushing frocks, some with frills and one with a stubborn jelly stain I couldn't get out. And mine. Comforting textures. Comforting shapes.
I pulled an old gray sweater from the basket. It smelled faintly of lavender, home. When I shook it out, something fell from the folds—paper, wrinkled and creased. I stopped, frowning as I knelt to pick it up.
It looked initially like
