She had talked about it countless times over the years. Boxes of fairy lights, remnants of the previous December, were waiting in the garage. She wanted to hang them in the living room.
It had been years since I had seen the Christmas lights shining.
I headed towards the back door of the kitchen, the one I hadn’t opened in ages.
My hand was resting on the door handle.
The metal was cold and slightly brittle, exactly as I had imagined it all these years without ever having touched it.
I filmed it.
The garage door creaked open.
I was expecting to find dust and engine oil.
On the contrary, I could smell the lavender.
My hand found the switch thanks to muscle memory.
The light bulbs flickered on.
And the world he had imagined for over a decade disappeared.
I stopped breathing.
There were no machines.
