The chair was still warm from him.

The papers smelled of copier toner and his cigarettes.

I heard the closet door slide open.

I heard hangers knock together.

The bedroom door was half open.

He was talking to himself, low, the way he did when he couldn’t find his keys.

I got up and followed him.

The hallway smelled of toast and his shaving cream, and for a second it was any morning of the last thirty years.