She was gone, but her things remained. Clothes and shoes she would never wear. Paints and brushes that would never, by her hand, grace a canvas. Garden gloves, mud-dried dusty, that would never nurture a new strawberry plant. 

He would box her things up eventually, but it was too soon.

William P. Adams lives near Seattle and writes short, caffeine-infused fiction in various genres. His work has appeared in 101 Words, CafeLit, Macrame Lit, Neither Fish Nor Foul, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere.