The curtain moved.
Not with wind—
but with something
warm,
like breath held
then let go.
Her anklet scraped
the floor tile
only once.
Your tea
steeped too long
on the windowsill.
The calendar page
was blank.
Her scarf stayed
where she dropped it—
on the chair’s back,
faint with
lemon shampoo.
And you—
you didn’t touch it.
Not then.
But later,
you folded it.
Twice.
As if
that meant
you hadn’t looked.
- THE END -
© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
Sometimes, absence is loudest in the things left behind. This is a quiet grief, told through scarves, silence, and tea that went cold.
