yours
at the end, you just drive home. nothing is forgotten, but something is left behind.
it follows you to the car. a single latch of a door, a single click of a buckle, the longest drive you've ever made.
when you get out of the car, it does too. when you enter the house, it follows. it sits when you do, in the chair beside your own.
it's yours to have, but never to hold again.