I wore her robe. The green velvet one that always hung on the back of their bedroom door, heavy and soft, still carrying the warmth of her body. He was in the shower, singing something off-key, steam rolling under the bathroom door. The mirror had fogged, but not enough to hide the shape I made wearing something that wasn't mine. I shouldn't have touched it. Shouldn't have lifted it from its hook, shouldn't have let the fabric slide over my skin. But I did. And once I felt it, I sat down on the edge of their bed, pulled the belt tight around my waist, and let myself imagine the life lived in rooms I only ever passed through. I wore it twice before they noticed it had been moved.