The latch had barely caught before movement stirred from the bed. The room's owner sat upright, her endless eyes taking in all around. Quickly finding a white scrap of fabric left abandoned beside her pillow. His glove. A gift he hadn't meant to give, yet more honest than the kiss he'd stolen. A smile graced her lips. She held it close to her face, burying her nose in the worn fabric. A ghost of him lingered within it—his scent mixed with a perfume of lavender bells, diffused by the sweat born of his labor—all for her.

  For a while, she simply breathed. As if holding this one part of him would keep him from slipping away again.

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  Gently, she curled onto her side, glove cradled to her chest. Her lashes flutter as thin fingers trace along the glove's seams—so threadbare in places. He'd worked them to their fullest, trapping millions of memories within them.

  Streaks of moonlight danced across her room as sleep threatened to take her once more, draping across her form as another covering. Outside, the sky stretched on in endless hush, stars watching, silent and eternal—witness to a love neither spoken nor denied.