Bosco Kitty's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

He waits on the rug beside her bed, his body still warm from the cottage. The room holds her scent — wool and cedar and the faint chemical smell of the medicine that stopped working. He keeps his eyes on the door, listening for her footsteps on the stairs. But the hours pass and she does not come. The light through the window shifts from morning to afternoon, pooling on the flowered cushions of the window seat where she used to sit with her diary. Bosco moves from the rug to the seat, pressing his nose into the fabric. Her scent is there, but weaker than it was yesterday. He circles the cushions and tries again. The smell of her hand on the diary's leather cover is fading. The wool from her cardigan in the cottage was stronger than this. He jumps down and paces to the rocking chair near the bed. The floral cushions still hold the shape of her body, the place where she rested when the medical chair became too much. He climbs onto the seat and buries his face in the fabric. The scent is there, but thin, like water stretched too far. He kneads the cushion, trying to bring it back, but nothing changes. Each breath pulls less of her into his lungs. The room is losing her. Bosco stops kneading and goes still. He understands now what the suitcase meant. She is not coming back to this room. The scent will fade completely, and there will be nothing left but the furniture and the empty chair and the door he finally crossed. He climbs down from the rocking chair and returns to the rug beside her bed. He cannot keep her scent from leaving. But he can stay here and remember it was real. He curls tight and closes his eyes. The room grows colder as the day ends.