One of the shirts you’d given him as a birthday gift still lies on the bed, pristine. The shirt, onion-coloured, reminds you of him. Having regained consciousness, your back braced against the wall, you stare numbly at the bed, at the shirt, yearning for these moments to be a fleeting dream.

The bedroom is achingly silent, the air stifling, save for the occasional breeze that steals in through the open window tempering the scent of the hibiscus plant outside. Your android phone buzzes on the floor beside the bed, a few tads away from you, screen down. But you’re not bothered.

Willing yourself to your feet, you totter to the bed. You ruffle the shirt. Then, you raise it to your face and take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his cologne on the fabric. It smells like him, your husband.

He’d first tried on the onion-coloured shirt, but you suggested that the sky-blue shirt was better with the black trouser; that was after he had spent almost an hour rummaging through the wardrobe in search of an outfit for the company’s interview he’d earlier mentioned, though you’d paid little attention to the details.

“I’ve always been a bit of a fashion disaster,” he’d said, his lips curled into a smile, as he put on the sky-blue shirt.

Smoothening out his collar, you’d replied, “That’s why I’m here for you—” You beamed “—to save you from frumpy fashion, honey.”

He planted a kiss on your forehead. “I pray this interview goes well.”

“It will,” you said. “Don’t let yourself get down. I and our little one will be praying for you.”

You placed a hand on your bulging belly and he rested his hand on top yours. When he opened his mouth to speak, you stopped him with a finger on his lips, reminding him that it was already past eight a.m. and he would be late.

You’re clutching his shirt to your chest now. The emptiness you feel is exhausting. You’re like a fabric fraying at the seams, the threads of your being coming undone. You wish you’d let him say what he wanted to say. If only you can rewind time and alter the course of event that followed. Your heart clenches with anguish. Your eyes meander around the bedroom, and finally rest on your phone buzzing beside the bed. Then, you recall.

You’d log on Twitter an hour ago and stumbled on the trending images and clip of a fatal bus crash that happened in Agbor, the town where you live. Your husband’s body jutted out from the wreckage, a deep gash on his head, and a long metal rod pierced his mouth, emerging from his right cheek. The images sent a frigid wave of fear crashing over you. You wish you’d mustered the strength to fly to his rescue instead of shrieking and then collapsing at the sight of the clip.

A chill breeze drifts into the room, and suddenly, you feel his presence. It’s overwhelming. The drapes flutter as if in acknowledgement. The baby in your womb kicks. Then you feel it, as if someone caressed your skin. A sudden sting pricks your eyes. They water. You blink. And there he is, your husband. Standing by the window. Grinning.

Your heart skips a beat. Is this real?

You stand, gradually, and start to inch closer, conscious of every step, hoping against hope that it isn’t an illusion.

“Is that you, honey—?” Your voice falters.

You reach out to touch him, but your fingers slide through air, as he melts away. Like vapour. An abrupt release surges through your entire body, like a new loosening, and you sink to your knees and begin to cry and cry and cry.