The hanger hung. It was barren, just like the closet in which it resided. It hadn't worn a shirt (or any piece of clothing for that matter) since she threw out all of his clothes. But she kept the hanger. It hung there still. Once holding smooth raincoats, rough tweed jackets, spotless white shirts, and soft sweaters, it was now nothing more than a metal skeleton. A twisted piece of wire that lost its purpose a long time ago.

Sometimes sounds could be heard from outside the closet. The clatter of silverware, the bark of a dog, the drone of the evening news, or, sometimes, crying. Never that loud type of crying with those jolting sobs that could shatter a ribcage. No, it was always gentle and soft, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her crying at all. Quiet whimpers pierced the darkness of the closet where the hanger hung.

There wasn't always a time when the closet door was shut. Once, when he was still here, the smell of home cooked meals, like pasta with marinara sauce or sweet barbecue with corn on the cob, constantly drifted under the door. He and she laughed loudly together into the late hours of the night. The door of the closet would fly open and closed multiple times a day. Articles of clothing were swapped around. The closet filled with light. Fabric on metal. Clothes on the hanger.

Then one day, when the door opened, she stood there. She wore a black dress filled with rain. Gray, clouded light stood in the damp air.

She stopped there for a minute, staring at the clothes hanging in the closet before she started to pull them down. She ripped them from their hangers and stuffed them in a trash bag as dark as her dress. After all the clothes were gone, she began taking down the hangers. One by one they were thrown off the bar and into the bag, their forms becoming twisted and mangled. But with the last hanger in hand, she froze. Her gaze flitted from the hanger, to the trash bag, to the empty closet, then came to rest back on the hanger. Her eyes were empty. They reflected the metal hanger. The metal hanger reflected her eyes. They stared at each other.

Carefully, she did her best to bend the hanger back into its original form. She held it for a while longer, just staring. Then, slowly, she put it back into the closet, lifted it over the metal bar, and let it fall into place. The door swung shut and the closet flooded with darkness.

That's when the crying started.

One evening, when the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing rang through the house, her voice was accompanied by a stranger's. Behind the closed closet door, laughter could be heard. Laughter for the first time in years.

"Oh," she laughed. "You can hang that up right in here."

The door to the closet swung open and soft, orange light poured in. The hanger was there. Hanging. It hung as though it was fulfilling some odd sense of duty to the metal bar it clung to.

When she saw it, her smile slipped away, mid-laugh. But she swallowed, lifted the hanger up, and took it out of the closet.

"Here," she said. "You can use this."