Aang's staff leaned in the corner, a rumpled orange robe peaked from beneath the bed. The sheets smelled like him. Kya had tried to change them, but Katara wouldn't let her. She'd come more undone over those sheets than she had at the memorial.
The bundle of scrolls he'd been reading, his cloak where he'd thrown it, careless over a chair. The stark impossibility of his absence. He'd stepped out to meditate, to check on the bison, to send a telegram. Any second now, he'd poke his head in and ask what kind of tea she wanted.
Any second now.