Residual Heat

It wasn't the chair that was still warm; that was simple physics. It was the way the books lay on the coffee table—, ne open, one used as a coaster. It was the radio still playing softly, tuned to a station she never listened to. It was the imperfection of their haste, as if they had been called away suddenly, as if they had known something was wrong. She had left an empty vase on the window sill. He must have left five minutes ago. She walked to the vase, touching its rim. And there, in the quiet, unfinished chaos, she felt his laughter linger. It stayed behind.

😊 😐 😰 😵

💖 A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils
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