It all began the night of Caspian’s wedding. One bag of clothes, a toothbrush, and his boots by the front door, and somehow, he never left. The place that used to smell like mildew and grief, and I couldn’t walk through it without feeling the weight of every bad memory pressing against my ribs. Now, it carries the scent of bergamot from candles I keep forgetting to blow out, the smell of burnt toast from Moe’s heroic but tragic attempts at breakfast, and a trace of his cologne on everything he touches.
