She bought a nightlight, plugged it into the bedroom corner. Its orange glow stretched the shadows of the closet and dresser into grotesque shapes. Once, she woke to see a thin slice of light seeping through the closet door, like a watching eye. She clutched the pillow to her chest, frozen, until dawn streaked the sky. When she finally threw open the closet, only Tom’s shirts swayed, hangers clinking—a mocking jingle.
She obsessed over order, trying to outrun the chaos. She sorted Tom’s tools in the garage: wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers lined up like soldiers. She alphabetized his CDs, from The Beatles to country ballads, wiping each case until it shone. She took apart his fishing rods, polishing the metal until it reflected her face. But when her thumb brushed the sweat-stained grip, she remembered him saying, “Next summer, we’ll fish the Mississippi for bass,” and tears fell, splashing the rod like broken stars.
One evening, she was chopping tomatoes when the knife froze. A faint handprint smudged the kitchen window—five fingers splayed, the ridges of the palm visible, as if someone had pressed their hand to the glass from outside, trying to claw in. She screamed, stumbling back, and knocked over the olive oil bottle. Amber liquid snaked across the tile like a dying snake. By the time she grabbed a rag, the handprint was gone, erased by the wind or her imagination. Only the scent of olive oil lingered, cold and sharp.