I keep a sweater in my desk drawer at work. Yeah, I know. It's not a big deal, everyone has weird stuff at work, right? Like Brenda from accounting who has a whole collection of tiny ceramic cats. But this is different. This sweater belonged to my brother. My older brother. He passed away a few years ago. It’s just a plain gray hoodie, nothing special, but it smells… it used to smell like him. Now it just smells like fabric softener and whatever weird scent spray my cleaning lady uses. I don’t know why I keep it there. It's stupid, really. I started doing it a few months after I got the promotion. My cubicle is right near the window, which is nice, but it also means everyone walking by can see in. My old desk was in a corner, hidden away. Anyway, I remember thinking, "Okay, new job, new me." I even bought one of those stupid desk organizers. But then one afternoon, after a particularly brutal meeting with Mr. Henderson about the quarterly projections (he just *loves* to hear himself talk), I felt this… emptiness. Not sad, just… hollow. I went home and rummaged through a box of his stuff my mom still has in the garage. Found the hoodie. Threw it in the wash. Now, every afternoon around 3:00 PM, when the caffeine wears off and the sugar crash from my vending machine cookies hits, I open that drawer. I don't take it out, I don't put it on. I just… touch it. My fingers trace the outline of the hood, the slightly worn cuff. It’s like a little ritual. Nobody notices. I make sure of that. I just quickly open and close the drawer. Sometimes, if I'm really zoned out, I might rest my hand on it for a few extra seconds. It feels… familiar. It’s not comfort, exactly. More like a physical anchor to something that used to exist. It’s completely illogical, I know. What does a worn-out hoodie do? Nothing. It's not like he's going to magically appear or I’m going to feel his presence. It's just fabric. But there’s a quietness that comes with it. A momentary pause in the relentless noise of the office, the emails, the deadlines. It’s a stupid little habit, a coping mechanism, maybe. My therapist would probably have a field day with it. My mom would just cry. So it stays in the drawer, my little secret, touched only by me. It’s weird how some things just stick.