She was wrapping the mugs in newspaper when she found it — the cherry magnet, still clinging to the fridge door as if it hadn't noticed.

It had held a note for as long as she could remember. The note was gone. The magnet stayed.

She set the mug down on the counter and stood there a moment, in the flat that smelled still faintly of her mother's soap and something else — a particular kind of quiet that rooms accumulate after decades.

The kettle was already packed. She had done that first, without thinking, and now wanted tea and had no means of making it. This seemed like the kind of small error her mother would have laughed at. You always do things in the wrong order, she used to say, though she said it gently, the way you say things you find endearing and are trying not to admit.

Outside, the afternoon was thinning into that grey-white particular to March. The building across the road had a single window lit, high up, and she watched it for a moment while her hands were still.

There had been a woman at the sorting office that morning. She'd handed over a parcel — forwarded mail, a magazine subscription nobody had cancelled — and when she'd said thank you the woman behind the counter had said take care of yourself, so naturally and without ceremony that it had caught her off guard. She'd sat in the car for a few minutes before she could drive.

The boxes were labeled in her own handwriting. KITCHEN. BEDROOM. BOOKS. The labels felt premature, as if the flat needed more time before it agreed to become things in boxes.

She picked up the cherry magnet from the fridge. It was lighter than she expected. She turned it over. On the back, in biro, in her mother's handwriting: Tuesday — ring the dentist.

She slipped it into the front pocket of her jacket, where she could feel the small plastic weight of it against her hip.

Then she unwrapped the mug she'd just wrapped, and went to look for the kettle.

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