He takes the machine in the corner, back to the door, the way he learned.
He feeds it shirts he never wears, a size too small, still folded the way she left them, pockets full of ticket stubs from that year.
The room smells like old lemons. A ceiling fan ticks above the neon OPEN. Someone’s forgotten basket waits under the change machine.
On the wall, a silent house: driveway with a maple, two mugs on a glass table, a woman reaching past the camera to straighten a collar.
His phone lights: nephew he’s allowed to see in pictures, frosting on his nose, four candles already smoke.
The cycle enters rinse. He watches the water rise around what’s left.
Thanks, he says, and no one hears.