A tee started it, the blue-green three quarter he slept in. It hadn’t been washed since and the scents in it kept him close. Cynthia would take it to bed and crawl inside, trying to dream of before. Soon she was into the rest of his closet, chasing down memories of him and wearing them through her days, all the best parts put together like an armoured garment shrine. Gradually she slipped into his skin, sought its council, and bound herself to its past. In the end she brought him back, but it was her we truly missed.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.