A year had passed since Regina Spiller died, but the house still carried her scent-sharp, floral, unapologetic. Clint Spiller moved through the rooms like a ghost haunting his own life. At 5'7", he had always been average in every way that mattered, until Regina. She had stood 5'4" in bare feet, but when she strapped on her tallest heels, their eyes met at the same level. That parity had been the spark. Her presence filled the space he occupied. Her voice cut through every hesitation. She was a force-broad-shouldered for a woman, jaw strong, opinions ironclad. A Karen through and through, the kind who demanded managers and always, *always* got her way.

Without her, Clint felt hollow. The strength he had leaned on for years was gone, and the silence it left behind was unbearable.

He never threw anything of hers away. Not her heavy wooden brushes, not the bottles of her preferred shampoo that smelled like green apples and vanilla, not her half-used lotions or the lipstick-stained coffee mugs. Everything that had belonged to Regina now belonged to him. At first it was small comforts: sleeping in her robe, washing his hair with her products, spritzing her perfume on his pillow. Each ritual pulled a thread of her back into his days.

Then came the night he stood before her open closet and decided it was no longer enough.