The closet in the hallway had remained shut since the day she died.
Daniel stood in front of it now, his fingers hovering over the doorknob. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Permission? Courage? Some sign that opening it wouldn't destroy him all over again?
He turned the knob.
The scent hit him first—lavender and vanilla, the ghost of her shampoo, her perfume, her. It was so strong, so alive, that for a single, heart-stopping second, he thought she might be standing there behind the door.
But of course, she wasn't.
Instead, there were boxes. Neatly stacked, labeled in her looping handwriting. Winter Clothes. Photos. Misc.
They had moved into this apartment two years ago, and some things had never been unpacked. "We'll get to it," she'd always say with a wave of her hand. Now, he was the one who would have to decide what to do with them.
He reached for the first box, his arms trembling under the weight. The cardboard was soft with age, the edges fraying. Inside were photo albums, a collection of mismatched coffee mugs she'd refused to throw away, and a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon.
He pulled one out. The paper was thin, yellowed at the edges.
"Dear Lila," it began.
His stomach twisted. These were from her father—the man who had left when she was twelve and never looked back. She had spent years searching for him, tracking down old addresses, calling strangers with the same last name. And when she finally found him, it was in a cemetery.
"He's gone," she'd whispered that night, curled into Daniel's chest. "I waited too long."
And now, so had he.
He should have burned these letters. Should have spared her the pain of ever reading them. But she had kept them, tucked away like shards of glass she couldn't stop touching.
Now, they were his to carry.