Dressing-gown

 

He left his father’s house untouched after he passed.

Years later, he returned to pack things away. Dust covered the furniture, the bed unmade—just as it was the night his father died.

On the chair, his father’s dressing-gown still hung, the fabric limp and waiting.

Sighing, he picked it up...

It was warm.

Like someone had just taken it off.

From behind him, the floorboards creaked.

***

66 words again.

Twilight Zone-y again. Maybe this is my mindset this month...