Real.
Kindness that didn’t expect anything in return.
Face buried in my palms, I begged my brain to produce an image. Even just a glimpse of his face.
I knew I was in no position to ask for anything, especially after being given all of this, but how unfair—no—how devastating it was that something like this didn’t have a face.
I caught myself sniffling, rubbing my nose into the sleeves.
That’s when I noticed it.
The bitter scent of burnt paper and stale tobacco making me lightly recoil. But even as I did, I pushed closer to inhale. When it wasn’t enough, I pulled away to tuck my chin into the neck of the sweatshirt, forcing my face inside and breathing deep. It was more concentrated here, like the hoodie had been breathing cigarette smoke and man for most of its life. No longer fabric but a mere extension of the man who wore it. Honestly, it was a terrible scent, ashy and stale, but the more I inhaled, the more comforted I felt. It wasn’t just cigarettes, though, but something earthier, making it less acrid. Leather with a hint of spice.
Home.
My cheek pillowed against leather. Gentle hands, cooing hums, and the sting of something astringent against the open wound on my cheek.
“Easy now, Pip. That sting ain’t welcome here.”
Warm, gentle breath. Battling against the pain and winning a war that wasn’t even his.
“Should have killed ‘em,” the gruff voice muttered, and my teeth began to chatter.
The rustle of clothing. Blazing warmth sliding beneath me and lifting while something comforting and soft tugged over my head.
My soft sigh.
The brush of something against my temple.
As it all began to recede, I grappled frantically, trying to hang on, not even caring if it was memory or imagination. Just wanting desperately to stay.
A barely there echo. “Stay out of trouble.”
My eyes stung, and even though my face was buried in the oversized sweatshirt, all the lamplight blocked by the midnight fabric, spots of light swam in front of my eyes, taunting me with scraps of memories I couldn’t recall but suddenly needed more than air.
Frustrated, I popped out of the shirt, gazing around the dimly lit room to focus on the window. I padded over, ignoring the cold floor against my feet, to push the curtain back and stare down onto the street.
It was dark, clearly the middle of the night. The street was illuminated, but it was empty, no one coming or going or loitering.
Speckles of ash littered the windowsill, and I pressed the pad of my finger on top, embedding them against my skin. I sniffed them, cigarette smoke like a ghost in this room. Lingering unseen just like the man whose face I couldn’t remember.
I didn’t wipe away the ash, just left it on my fingers while touching the latch on the glass, wondering if he’d used it to prop open the window to filter out the smoke.
How long had he stayed here with me? Why did he leave?
The hollowness in my chest hung uncomfortably, making me rub my palm over it, trying to wipe it away. It lingered, though, just like the smoke, and it felt as though I were mourning someone I’d never even met.
Eventually, I left the window to crawl into the giant, soft bed.
After eating, watching too much TV, and using my finger to trace over every letter he’d written in the note, I curled intohis hoodie, watching the muted TV flicker shadows across the room.
“Thank you,” I whispered into the dark before falling into a dreamless sleep.
He wouldn’t hear it, but I said it anyway, letting the words linger there with his memory.
CHAPTER
FOUR
