The blue light from this phone is the only thing alive in the room right now and my eyes sort of sting from staring at it but I can't really stop because if I put it down then the dark just starts to feel like a heavy coat I can’t take off. It’s 2:14 AM and the house is making those clicking sounds—the heater or the pipes maybe—and it sounds like someone’s counting under their breath. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed thinking about that hallway closet. It’s just a normal closet, I guess. It’s got the vacuum and the extra lightbulbs and the winter coats we never wear because the weather’s been so strange lately, but way in the back, behind the old Samsonite with the broken zipper, there’s another bag. It’s small. Brown leather. I don’t even remember where it came from. Maybe a garage sale or something back when things were tight and every nickel had to scream before we spent it. I did it again today. Or yesterday, I guess, since the sun’s going to be up soon. I went to that boutique over on 5th, the one with the big glass windows and the smells that remind me of expensive laundry soap, and I bought another one. A baby blanket. This one is sort of a pale mint color, almost white but not quite, and the edges are that soft satin that feels like a secret when you run your thumb along it. The girl at the register smiled at me and asked if it was a gift and I just kind of nodded and said something about a niece I don’t actually have. I’m good at that. It’s what I do all day at the office—telling stories, making people want things they don't need, acting like everything is shiny and NEW and perfect. I’ve got the title and the corner office and the 401k that’s finally looking decent, but I felt like a thief walking out of that store with that little paper bag. It’s just... it’s been thirty-two years. THIRTY-TWO. You’d think a person would run out of steam or just forget, but every October it’s like the air gets thin and I can’t quite catch my breath until I’m holding something soft. I take it home and I wait until the house is quiet and then I crawl into the back of that closet. I don't turn on the light. I just feel my way past the coats and the boxes of old tax returns. I open the bag and I tuck the new one in with the others. There’s a whole stack of them now. Some are wool, some are that cheap fleece that pills after one wash, some are handmade things I found in thrift stores back when I was skipping meals to make the rent. They all smell like the dark. Like cedar and dust and maybe a little bit of the perfume I wore in 1992. It’s probably crazy. I know that. If anyone found them they’d think I was some kind of freak or like I was hoarding a ghost. But it’s not a big deal, really. It’s just a suitcase. It’s just some thread and some cotton. I tell myself that every time I zip it back up. It’s just a hobby, sort of. But then I think about my mother and how she didn’t have time for hobbies because she was too busy scrubbing floors and making sure we didn't starve, and I feel this weird SHAME in my chest. Like I’m wasting space. Like I’m keeping something that doesn't belong to me. My grandmother always said you shouldn't hold onto things that can't love you back, but she was talking about men, not blankets. Still, the weight of that bag is getting to be a lot. Sometimes I imagine what’ll happen when I finally retire and we sell this place. Someone’s going to find that suitcase. Some stranger with a clipboard or maybe a niece who actually exists will pull it out and see thirty-two blankets, all different colors, all unused, still smelling like the store. What do you even say to that? I don’t have a name for it. I don't have a reason. It’s just that Tuesday in October when the sky looked like a wet sidewalk and the doctor’s voice sounded like static on a radio. Everything was so cold. So incredibly cold. I guess I just wanted to make sure it stayed warm, even if there was nothing left to cover. I’m fifty-eight years old and I spend my days talking about brand identity and consumer engagement and "moving the needle," but at night I’m just a woman sitting on a cold floor in a dark closet touching a piece of satin. It’s pathetic, maybe. Or just stupid. I keep thinking I should just take them all to a donation bin and walk away. Just drop them off and never look back. But then I think about the stack getting smaller and the suitcase being empty and it feels like I’d be losing the only thing I ever really kept for myself. Not for the job, not for the husband, not for the image. Just for the part of me that’s still standing in that hospital hallway waiting for someone to tell me it was all a mistake. The house is still clicking. I should probably try to sleep because I have a meeting at nine about the new seasonal rollout and I can’t have bags under my eyes. I have to look sharp. I have to look like I have everything under control. I’ll put on the suit and the pearls and I’ll talk about "legacy" and "impact" like those words actually mean something. And no one will know about the brown leather bag. No one will know that I’m just a collection of fragments held together by a few yards of pale mint wool. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a secret. Just a little bit of fluff hidden behind the coats. I’ll probably do it again next year. Maybe a blue one next time. Or a soft grey. Something that looks like the sky before it starts to rain. I guess that’s just how it is. Just another thing to carry.