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His things were left untouched—the razor and shaving cream in the bathroom, the clothes in the closet, and even the ones on the chair designated as a limbo for their clothes that were too dirty for the closet, yet too clean for the laundry. Sometimes, she would pick up one of his crumpled shirts and inhale the lingering remnants of him clinging to the fabric of the material world.
His home office was still intact; papers and books remained in an organized mess on the desk. She only went in there to vacuum and wipe off the dust from the surfaces and windowsill. Everything of his was still perfectly in place in the house, and she was going to leave it the way it was. There were moments when she expected him to walk in, slip on his house slippers, and plop beside her on the couch in the living room, asking her if they should go out for dinner or order takeout.
Realizing he wouldn’t be walking through the front door tonight, she was reminded once more that she was now, possibly, a widow. Widow... A word she hated to say aloud. A year had already passed, yet his death was still unconfirmed.