Amber Echoes

The streetlights bled orange onto the worn cotton of the quilt.
It wasn't a grand warmth, not like a hearth or a crowded cafe. Just… settled. The kind that clings to you after a long shift, a quiet insistence on being held.
He’d left before dawn, a scent of rain and something sharp – sandalwood, maybe? – lingering in the air. I hadn't spoken much, just ‘see you later,’ the words tasting faintly of regret.
The bus shuddered to a halt outside, another ghost pulling away into the grey.
I closed my eyes, letting the residual heat from his side of the bed seep into my skin. It was foolish, chasing after echoes in a room full of silence.
But there’s a particular frequency to warmth – a vibration that settles deep and remembers.
Perhaps it wasn't about him returning, not really.
More about finding this small pocket of solace, the way the city always offered a fleeting refuge after its relentless rush. The bus doors hissed open, reflecting the streetlights in their metallic glow.
And for a moment, just a breath held tight against my chest, I felt… complete.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler