A bed that once was slept in.

The indent of a familiar figure.
Sheets that once enveloped a warm body, covering the skin, and blocking out the world.
The pillow, the keeper of sighs, whispers, and secrets.
Comrade and guardian, the teddy bear; it's fur worn off in patches from desperate, clammy hands.
That bed, whose frame endured the tossings and turnings of the troubled sleeper.

Empty.

The familiar weight is gone.
Covers droop over a cold, dormant mattress, lacking warm, breathing skin.
Pillows lay frozen with dried tear stains of past nightmares.
The teddy bear sits forlorn, an empty-eyed soldier, fading into the blankets.
The frame is silent without the creaking movements of the dreamer.

Forgotten.