Chrome Dust & Cotton Sheets

The sun bled through the gaps in the blinds, a fine film of dust coating everything—chrome dust from the old metro line, they say. Sheets rough against skin still warm from his touch.
It’s been like this since he dragged himself back home, all elbows and nervous smiles after scavenging for hours.
They don't say much anymore. Words feel brittle in a world built of scrap metal and memory.
But the heat lingers. His scent—a mix of engine oil and something sweet, like rainwater on asphalt—still clings to me.
He left his jacket over the back of the chair. A simple thing, but it’s weight felt like homecoming.
The photo frame on the nightstand—color faded just enough to feel right—shows us before all this. Before the rust set in. We were laughing then.
Now, we mostly listen to each other breathe. And it's enough. More than enough, really. He’ slow blink a promise of another sunrise amongst the rubble.

Editor: Rusty Cog