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[ BROOKLYN, N.Y. ]
The dog tags were cold against Florence's chest. It was the first thing she felt when she woke up the next morning, followed almost immediately by a fleeting sense of inexplicable disappointment.
He's not here, she realized as the crushing reality of loss sank onto her closed eyes and made Florence squeeze them tightly shut.
Taking a deep breath, she rolled over and opened her eyes, staring at the hardwood floor she'd slept on, nothing between her and the floorboards except a fluffy orange blanket. Florence sighed and sat up, drawing her legs to her knees and then stretching them out in front of her with a tired groan. Her head was just next to the side of her bed.
The sound of her heartbeat was too loud, too intrusive. The silence was stifling. Florence squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and slowly stood up.
The clock on the nightstand behind her read 10:02 AM.
Reaching up, Florence fiddled with her dog tags, running her index finger over the engraved words. As she crossed the room to her dresser, she felt her eyes prick with tears at the sight of the photo there—a smiling little boy holding a toy truck and wearing a blue baseball cap.
Avoiding the boy's too-still eyes, Florence got dressed quickly, then crossed the hall to the kitchen and hoisted herself up onto the counter. Taking cereal out of the cabinet, she reached to her left to open the fridge. She poured milk into her bowl of Cheerios, then folded her socked feet under her legs and leaned against the window to finish her breakfast.
Slowly, she surveyed her apartment. It was clean—too clean, looking like nobody had lived inside for years. Florence felt her chest burn at the sight of the bare floor; no toys, no candy wrappers, no remote control cars and model trains strewn across the carpet.
Her eyes flicked up to look at the front door, then, and just as she was staring at the unused peephole, Florence's blood ran cold.
The front door was open.
Holding her breath, Florence set the half-empty bowl down on the counter, slipped down to the floor, and padded silently across the apartment. She slowed as she approached the door, leaning to look out of the crack shedding yellow light into her still-dim entrance.
The hallway was empty.
Biting her lip, Florence opened the door and leaned out into the hall, before shaking her head and reentering her apartment. Must've left the door open last night.
Her sneakers were still by the door; Florence slipped them on and grabbed her phone and wallet, stuffing them each into one pocket and cursing their small size.
She didn't know where she was going. Only that it had to be anywhere but here, where memories were like a thick, painful fog she had to wade through with only half her senses.
