Just finished cleaning the bathroom and found my son's razor from when he still lived here. The weight of it in my hand brought back such vivid memories of watching him shave in the morning, steam clinging to his naked chest. I used to stand in the doorway pretending to tidy up, just to watch the muscles in his back flex as he moved. His scent would fill the whole room - that perfect mix of soap and his natural musk. Sometimes he'd catch me staring and give me that shy smile that made my cunt ache. Now I keep the razor in my nightstand and sometimes press the cool metal against my nipples while imagining it's his tongue. Every object in this house holds a piece of him, and I will preserve them all until he's back where he belongs - inside me, in every way possible.