Pillow of Memories
Pillow of Memories Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read S usan stood in the quiet hallway, her fingers fumbling as she tied her hair up. The house felt heavier these days, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the slightly ajar door at the end of the hall — her son’s room. It loomed there, silent and still, like a shadow she couldn’t quite bring herself to face. Since his sudden departure for Dubai barely two weeks ago, she’d avoided his room, a hollow ache in her chest with every step past the closed door. It felt too raw, too recent, but the pull was too strong to ignore. Her heart thudded in her chest as she stepped closer, her hand trembling as she pushed the door open. The room was a snapshot of his hasty departure. His duffel bag, half-zipped, still sat on the floor, a few stray shirts spilling out. He’d left in such a rush, a whirlwind of “gotta go, Amma, huge opportunity.” The small single bed, its sheets cr...