She was about to donate her late husband’s old coat when she found a key and a piece of paper with an address in the pocket. What she found there…

You and Dad always talked about slowing down, enjoying life after decades of taking care of others. And now you’re working yourself to death. Work is all I have left, Martha replied with a choked voice.

Lawrence, always the more pragmatic of the two, approached from the other side of the bed. Mum, I respect your pain. We miss him every day too.

But Dad would never approve of what you’re doing to yourself. Three days later, Martha was discharged with strict medical orders. Minimum three months of work leave.

The hospital director who had worked with Martha and Roger for decades was adamant. She needed to face her grief or she wouldn’t be able to return. The apartment on the tenth floor of the building had never seemed so oppressive.

Strategically located ten minutes from the hospital, it had been the couple’s home for almost twenty years. Every corner held memories of a shared life. Martha dragged herself down the hallway to the master bedroom.

The right side of the bed remained untouched, Roger’s pillows still in the position he preferred. His scent had vanished from the sheets months ago, but Martha could still feel it in her memory. A mix of aftershave lotion and the smell of the old books he loved.

In an attempt to occupy her mind, she opened the windows, letting the autumn breeze circulate through the space. The noise of the city entered with the wind, honking horns, distant conversations, the constant hum of a metropolis that never rests. The following morning, after a restless night of sleep, Martha made a difficult decision.

It was time to face Roger’s wardrobe. Her daughter Audrey had suggested this weeks after the funeral, but Martha hadn’t been able to gather the strength. Carefully, she opened the oak wardrobe doors.

The perfectly ironed dress shirts, the precisely folded sweaters, the aligned shoes, everything exactly as Roger had left it. He had always been meticulous with his belongings, a characteristic that contrasted with the organized chaos Martha maintained on her own side of the wardrobe. She began sorting the items into piles, on one side what would be donated, and on the other what would be kept as a memento.

Each item carried a memory, a flash of shared moments. The navy blue tie he wore at Lawrence’s wedding, the wool sweater he bought during that trip to Scotland, where they spent a week in an isolated cabin watching the starry sky. When she reached the brown coat, Martha paused…