Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

But it must’ve been only a day or two before he
disappeared. If it was longer than that, he would’ve asked if I
received it.
And why would he mail me something in the first place?
We were together every day.
I turn the envelope over slowly in my hands. Gently.
Reverently. I lift it to my nose and sniff, but there’s no trace of
his scent. I run my finger over the letters of my name, written
in faded black ink in his precise, slanted handwriting.
Then I blow out a breath, turn it back over, slide my
fingernail under the flap with its brittle, crumbling glue, and
rip it open.
Into my palm slides out a heavy silver key.