It is three days following her cremation. I am sitting bent in bed, shoulders slumped. My nose lifts. There is a perfumed aroma redolent of spicey musk. It suffuses the room. It is her fragrance. I slip into shoes and rummage about. Nothing. A clatter of throaty utterances splits the silence. I cock my head like a bird listening for a worm. The utterances are so numerous, distinct words are garbled. Still, they seem restless, apprehensive, troubled. My body jerks. I am sweat wet, hands trembling. My head pivots, scanning the room. I collapse to the floor, shaken. The aroma dissipates, the voices cease.

Paul Rousseau (he/his/him) is a semi-retired physician and writer published in sundry literary and medical journals. Nominated for The Best Small Fictions anthology from Sonder Press, 2020. Twitter: @ScribbledCoffee