Preserved.
Like I’d stepped into a museum made of grief.
A display of the life I let rot.
When I turned, the door was already shut. No key on the counter. No explanation. Just me. And Camille. And everything I’d buried under excuses.
I waited, barely inside the doorway, staring down the hallway like something might emerge from it—something still wearing Camille’s perfume.
Nothing did. But her scent lingered. Faint. Faded. Like the memory of a touch that once meant something. Vanilla and cinnamon. Warmth. Repetition. Home.
I moved slowly, careful not to disturb anything. As if stepping too loudly might shatter her ghost.
Marble counters gleamed beneath soft lighting. Gold hardware glinted like jewelry. The wine rack was still full. I stopped in front of it. Her favorite bottle still sat center stage—red with the gold foil neck. The one she saved for“when I need to feel expensive.”
I turned away before I could see the glasses. The living room was just as she left it. Cushions perfectly fluffed. Not a throw blanket out of place.
A scarf—hers—was folded on the arm of the couch. Not draped. Folded. Deliberate. Like someone else had done it. Like someone had come through after everything fell apart and tried to make it look untouched.
Preserved.
A still life of a woman no longer breathing.
The fireplace was cold and clean. But the scent of old smoke clung to the bricks. A candle sat melted near the base. Half-used. I knew that one. I’d teased her about it a hundred times.
You have twenty candles. Why always that one?
She’d smile and say,Because it’s the only one that smells like being held.
I used to laugh.
Now?
I hated how much I understood that.
Her room was at the end of the hall. I knew it before I saw it. The air thickened with each step. Denser. Heavier. Like the house didn’t want me to enter unless I understood what it meant to grieve someone properly.
The door creaked when I pushed it open. Her bed was made. Pillows perfectly fluffed. Crisp sheets tucked with military precision. Like she expected someone to inspect it even after death.
But someone had been here.
For me.
A nightgown lay folded at the edge of the mattress. Not hers. Mine. Fresh toothbrush in the holder—still packaged. A glass of water and a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand.
And at the center of the bed?—
A note.
My name written across it in Camille’s unmistakable slant.
Bre.
Only she called me that.
I sat slowly. Felt the bed dip beneath me like it had been waiting. I didn’t open the letter. I couldn’t. If I opened it, it would be real. If I read it, it would be goodbye. So I left it where it was—sealed and sacred.
I stood when the silence became unbearable. Crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back an inch. At first, there was nothing. Just trees. Branches motionless in the still air. Then?—
