Moving On

He recognised no trace of himself in his bedroom.  It was all her: the bedding, the figurines on the dressing table, even the bed was her.  He strode determinedly out of the room, stopping on the other side of the threshold.  With an about turn he stormed back, scooping the figurines into his arms before carefully dropping them on to the bed.  He stared at them, deliberating his next move.  He gently bundled the duvet, the porcelain clinking as he carried it to the spare room.  It was a start; after all she had been dead nearly two years now.