They always kept it warm here. The nurses say it helps with the nerves - that it keeps patients from shaking. I tell them I don’t mind, because the poor ladies stuck here need it, and I’m a nice person, so I let it be. But the heat will always remind me of the memories - even though the night he died was a cold one, just like any other.

Sometimes at night, when the corridors go still and I can hear the soft whirring of the vending machine with the lazy breaths of my roommates, I try to remember the cold. I used to keep the house cold — he liked it that way. “Keeps the mind sharp,” he’d say, tapping his temple. I’d sit in my chair with a blanket over my knees and stitch by the fire, pretending not to see him watching over his books. Every time he’d anchor his gaze to my back with those foggy grey eyes, and I’d get a shiver that went down my spine as my hand twitched violently. I could never focus on my sewing.

The doctors ask me about that night often. The night they say I found him. They used gentle tones, as if soothing out their itchy, rasping voices…as if soothing their voices might help tranquilize the pain of the memories. They told me that I ran out into the street, screaming for help, and that I’d fainted, and I nodded the whole time. I didn’t remember the scream, but I suppose it must have sounded awful, echoing through the house like that. I do remember the smell, though - the thick iron in the air.
The nurses here are kind, and they let me sew in the afternoons, even bring me thread from the storeroom. They bring crimson, mostly, because it “cheers the eyes.” I liked it because it hides mistakes.

I’ve been working on a tablecloth for weeks now. The pattern came to me in a dream in long looping lines, like veins, running to the edge of the fabric. I lose track of time when I’m sewing. There’s something soothing about the needle’s bite, the way it slips in and out, leaving such neat, obedient patterns behind, that calms my nerves.

They’ve all been told I’m fragile. That whatever I saw must’ve been terrible. That I was so brave for bearing whatever had happened in that house. Sometimes they whisper about how much denial I was in because he was my husband. I let them believe it. It’s easier that way. This afternoon, when the thread caught on my finger, I noticed a small cut. I licked it clean, out of habit. The taste of copper and salt was comforting, and I missed the taste of comfort.

When the nurse came by to check my work, she smiled and said my stitches were perfect, and I had never felt so happy. I thanked her, but I didn’t tell her the trick. It’s all in the wrist. Gentle pressure. Precise aim. And never, ever let your hand tremble.