She pulled the hairpin from the top of her head, letting her silver hair drop to the center of her back. He always loved her hair, often brushing it for her under the light of a candle on a moonlit night.
He's gone now, and she sits alone at her vanity, staring into nothingness as she counts the brush strokes and remembers how his rough, weathered hands seemed so gentle as she caught him smiling at her in the mirror's reflection.
It's odd, she thought, that something so simple as brushing her hair would bring back some of her fondest memories of the man she loved and the stolen moments of closeness they shared. She finished brushing and blew out the candle, draping her hair over his side of their bed as she whispered goodnight with a falling tear.
Mike 2025
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