“No, I’m sorry, those items are no longer for sale. They’re, uh, being held until the owner can come and pick them up,” Myth spoke firmly, a hint of discouraging boredom in her voice. Finally, the caller took the hint and with a grumble, got off the phone. Hanging up, she rested her forehead for a moment against the wall and wondered if owning her very own shop was really worth the headache.

With a small sigh, she straightened and headed for the door, locking it and flipping the sign around to Closed. She had things to do tonight. That, remarkably enough, had little to do with Nis. No, tonight she was finally saying goodbye. Counting out the till could wait for an hour or two.

Moving with cat-like quiet, she slipped into the little office she kept in the back of the shop and picked up a large box full of… things. Maybe once they’d been dear and held memories of good times. But now, they were nothing more than lifeless things and clutter. No longer worth holding on to. Or that’s what she insisted on telling herself to make everything hurt less.

Taking the box from the office, Myth settled it on a little coffee table and took a seat in the wing chair beside. Then, with a flinch, she opened the box to reveal a number of scarves and items that her husband had left behind when he’d vanished. And since he had scarpered, she felt that there was very little reason to continue to hold on to them in the vague hope that he’d return.

“He’s never coming back,” she told herself harshly. “Maybe he’s dead, maybe he just wandered off. It doesn’t matter anymore. He. Is. Never. Coming. Back.”

Telling herself these things had helped to keep her strong in the face of the uncertainty. It hadn’t made the hurting stop, but she refused to let it cripple her. Even looking at his things gave her heart a biting ache. Still, she had a job to do. Visibly bracing herself, Myth began to sort out the little trinkets and items that her husband had purchased for himself during various antiquing trips. Those would be sold. And putting thought to action, Myth began putting little price tags on them. It was a sort of welcome, spiteful closure. And as such, Myth told herself that she was going to enjoy this bit of labor.

Once the last trinket was tagged and set out somewhere prominent, she turned her attention to the small collection of scarves and felt a bitter sob well up in the back of her throat. Allowing herself a brief moment of nearly overwhelming grief, Myth roughly brushed her tears away and went to fetch a pair of scissors and a trash bag. And then, once she had them set up, she sat in the middle of the floor, hidden from anyone who might wander by the shop and peek in the window. And then… and then…

Taking a deep breath that somehow managed to end in a growl, Myth took up the scissors and after nicking a finger making sure they were sharp, seized up the first of the scarves and began to stab and cut at the fabric with the scissors, determined to shred the things and purge herself of so much useless grief.

Even as she reduced each scarf to nothing more than wisps of fabric and thread, Myth felt hot, angry tears pouring down her face. Even so, as each scarf met it’s scissory end, she felt some of the emotional weight of her husband’s disappearance begin to lift. She’d never be completely rid of the hurt and sense of puzzled loss, but in shredding and destroying the scarves all while giving vent to animal screams of betrayal seemed to help. And by the time she reduced the last one to it’s component parts, Myth was exhausted, but at peace.

Rising up from the floor, she took the full garbage bag and tied it off firmly. She’d drop it in the dumpster on her way out, exactly where it and the ghost of her a*****e husband belonged.