All her stuff is moved back into her moms house, back into her old bedroom with the posters and the porcelain dolls and tea sets. But it's not home. It's just a house, with rooms and stairs and imperfections.
It's for the best, even when she's tearing up at her pictures stuck in the frame of her her mirror. She's takes them all down, looking individually at them before packing them in a small box.
A bed full of feathers, the ice cream cone date, the day by the lake, the trees she's climbed.
In the box.
The curtains she took from his apartment, picture of him painting her toe nails, his car.
In the box, a few tear stains on them.
Her pink dress, the long string of pearls he loved so.
She shoved them in the box and wipes her tears away. The box is put in the top of her closet, and she heads down stairs when she stops at the stair post.
His black jacket is still there, untouched and dusty. She grabs it, checking the pockets and has every intention of just throwing it away when something hard touches her finger tips.
She pulls out a ring, and she falls to the ground.