There is a cup of coffee in your hands you don't remember making.

It must be hot, because you can see the steam rising from it, but the heat itself doesn't seem to register in your palms. Something tells you it should be burning your fingers, but all you can sense is static.

Early morning light filters through the blinds like a retro movie filter, and the world is just that, moving pictures through heavy golden blurs. It seems surreal, how brightness bleeds from the window, making flocks of dust dance against each ray, and casts warm shadows over the room.

The house was silent and still, serene, countertops clean, dishes put away, that worn, red and white stripped tablecloth you'd picked with him years ago placed neatly over the table beneath your arms.

Maybe, you reason with yourself, maybe it's because you can't wrap...