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The coffin was a tight fit for two, but Tim loved it. He slept best with Abby's back pressed to his chest, her hair tickling his nose and his arms wrapped around her as if he would never let her go again. And he didn't mean to; despite all the ups and downs, all the yes-no-I-don't-know that they had going on—a constant part of their lives that they didn't even notice much anymore, just like the ever-buzzing drone of the traffic from the freeway, maybe—and despite their (sometimes) huge differences, Tim knew that with Abby, he had found home.
His heart was at rest.
And for some reason, her coffin—in which he had refused to sleep for a long time after he'd found out it wasn't a sofa bed—symbolized exactly this. Home. Safety. Closeness. A silent togetherness, designed to outlast the outside world's decay.
While the thought might be overly poetic, it still felt exactly like this.
At least until Abby started complaining that he was “like a broken heater,” and “breathing too loudly,” and “fidgeting around too much,” which usually ended with him huffing in frustration and moving to sleep on the actual sofa bed—where he would wake up later to find her in his arms again. Always.