Opening their closet can feel like trespassing into a paused moment, a small rebellion against the fact that time has moved on without their permission. Shirts hang the way they left them, shoes wait by the door as if an ordinary day might still be reclaimed. You’re not just sorting fabric; you’re touching birthdays, arguments, vacations, the way they laughed when they thought no one was listening.
There is no right number of hangers to clear, no proper date to begin. You might hold a sweater to your face just to breathe, or set aside a jacket for the days you miss their courage most. Some things you’ll keep because they’re beautiful; others because they’re ordinary, worn in the exact places their life rubbed against the world. In time, the closet stops being a shrine to what ended and becomes a quiet testament to what still lives in you.
