After a long shift at work, I pushed open my apartment door and immediately froze.
The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and warm bread. For a moment, I wondered if I had walked into the wrong unit. But Oliver’s crooked crayon drawing was still taped to the refrigerator, and my chipped coffee mug sat by the sink. It was definitely my home — just… different.
The blankets that usually lay in rumpled piles were neatly folded. The kitchen counter, normally cluttered with the evidence of busy evenings, was spotless. Even the sink was empty and shining.
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