The silence of the house was a heavy blanket, until the scent of her perfume, lingering on a forgotten silk scarf, unwound a memory in the dark. His calloused fingers, usually so steady, trembled as they traced the phantom curve of a hip on the cold, empty sheet beside him. He could almost feel the warm weight of her head on his chest, the whisper of her breath a ghost agat his skin. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the vivid recollection of moonlight tracing the elegant line of her spine as she moved above him. The taste of salt on her neck returned to him, a sharp, desperate tang mingling with the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from the open window. Every nerve ending, long dormant, awoke with a painful ache, remembering the press of her mouth, the way her sighs would catch and break into a soft moan. The mattress seemed to sigh with him, holding the impression of a shared life that now existed only in these fleeting, tactile visions. A low groan escaped his lips, not of sorrow, but of a deep, physical yearning for a touch that could no longer warm him. In the profound stillness, his own hand became a poor substitute, mapping a familiar territory of loss and ardent, solitary need.
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