I was sitting on the edge of Abigail's bed in her room.
The room seemed a lot different from how I remembered it from the last time I visited, which, admittedly, was years ago.
Yet, had someone shown me the picture of this place and asked me to guess whose room it was, I'd have gotten it right the first time. There was just something about it that felt familiar to me. From the way posters and photographs were stuck on one wall to the clothes scattered around the floor, the way a dress lay on the fluffy carpet like a skin shed by a snake, the way the room smelled—even just the look of it—it was all so Abigail.
Not that I'd been to many other bedrooms, though.
"You are staying for the night, right?" she asked me, turning to face me as she dried her hair with a pink hairdryer, her voice raised a little over the noise.
