Coming home, everything was the way she left it. The way his bottom lip hid the spice of Chinese takeout and the way her shirt and jeans still held the bitter smell of the cigarette smoke and the softer, sweeter scent of his hair. The way the dimmed hallway light seeped through her cracked bedroom door at night: blurry charcoal lines warm and silent on the dark walls. The way her sister let her laugh roll out and come quick with complete abandon, the way the old records would whisper noisily under the needle to gather their song before they go, the way her reflection in the kitchen window still held the same expression as when she left. Coming home, everything was the way it had always been, and everything was new.
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