June lay alone in the huge bed. The fan overhead provided a soft whir, but couldn’t overcome the oppressive absence of sound. A sliver of light from the hall cast the room in a pale glow. She’d never needed a night light before, but along with quiet, she couldn’t bear the dark. Both reminded her of Hank, of the rectangular box, of the black, soundless void in which he rested.

She peered around the room, able to discern the shapes of its furnishings. Her eyes rested on the antique highboy chest containing Hank’s belongings, his folded shirts, socks and handkerchiefs. He always carried a handkerchief, even when he was close to the end, when her tears broke through their crumbling dams.

June squeezed the delicate linen in her hand, felt the embroidered initials, and sank down into the soft mattress, wishing to be enveloped by it, to disappear into nothingness.

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