The apartment was too clean. Too still. A kitchen you'd never cooked in. A couch you'd never sat on with company. A bed you'd never shared.

On the marble coffee table, a new phone gleamed in its box. Next to it, a sticky note in Tony's handwriting:

A bottle of something amber caught the dying light from where it sat, half-empty, on the floor by the balcony door. You hadn't closed the sliding glass all the way. A cold breeze slipped through, cutting across your arms.

The city hummed below. Sirens. Music from a bar three blocks down. Someone laughing.