#flashfiction

She was sorting the kitchen drawers when she found the list.

It was written on the back of an envelope — her mother's handwriting, the letters leaning slightly right as though heading somewhere.

Milk. Brown bread. Batteries (AA). Tulips if they have them.

The last machine at the end of the row was still running when she arrived at half past eleven, the drum turning with someone else's clothes inside. She took the middle machine — habit, she supposed — and fed her coins in without counting them.

The launderette smelled of warm lint and something faintly sweet she couldn't place. A paper notice taped to the wall said PLEASE COLLECT YOUR ITEMS PROMPTLY and someone had written

or else

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.