[ It’s a few hours before Anri finds the shirt. Although it had been neatly folded at one point, the coming and going of people with less than exacting amounts of care through the cramped hall has left it crumpled, a messy facsimile of its former tidy corners. It’s familiar, an understated shade of blue; the colour is enough to hit her like a stricture of blood to the heart, the memory of air and a shy, embarrassed smile and a kind voice, kinder than she had deserved.
She’s almost afraid to touch it. He had always been a good thing, gentle and nice. He had undercut the intensity in the back of her mind with a smile, with a soft word. He had helped her believe in ordinary, kind people when she was sure none existed at all.
When Anri finally does pick it up, it’s with a ginger touch, fingers only curling in enough to keep the shirt from slipping to the ground. It dangles loosely, held at one shoulder and one sleeve, until she can’t look at it anymore and brings her hands together. It will wrinkle, she thinks, followed by, let it.
When she goes back inside, the shirt is stuffed into the lowest compartment of her meager bedside drawers. ]
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She’s almost afraid to touch it. He had always been a good thing, gentle and nice. He had undercut the intensity in the back of her mind with a smile, with a soft word. He had helped her believe in ordinary, kind people when she was sure none existed at all.
When Anri finally does pick it up, it’s with a ginger touch, fingers only curling in enough to keep the shirt from slipping to the ground. It dangles loosely, held at one shoulder and one sleeve, until she can’t look at it anymore and brings her hands together. It will wrinkle, she thinks, followed by, let it.
When she goes back inside, the shirt is stuffed into the lowest compartment of her meager bedside drawers. ]