Pale Silence
The first sign was not the shouting, no it was the way the house learned to listen.
Strange as it is, even the floorboards seem to hold their breath. Cups paused mid-rattle in the cupboard. Even the clock softened its ticking, as if afraid of being overheard. I stood at the sink, hands in soapy water, watching my reflection fracture in the window. Outside, the evening pressed its face against the glass.
When he left, he did not slam the door. That would have been kindness of some sort. Instead, he closed it carefully, the way one does when entering from a funeral parlour. The latch softly clicked and the house’s exhalation was almost non-existent.
For weeks afterward, everything arrived quietly. The silence, the sleep and the mail. I soon learned that peace can bruise you if it comes too fast.
One afternoon, my neighbor knocked to return a dish I did not remember lending. She smiled the way people do when they expect some sort of gratitude. I thanked her anyway and after she left, I placed the dish back on the cupboard, exactly where it had always been.
That night, I woke to the sound of someone breathing. It took me several seconds to realize it was my own.
I lay still and waited for the familiar weight beside me, the warning shift of a body turning in sleep. Nothing came, the ceiling stared back, unreadable and cold.
In the morning, the house seemed to have forgotten how to listen.
The clock ticked too loudly and cups rattled again. The floorboards complained under my feet with the clutch of my stiletto. Everything out of the sudden insisted on being heard.
I stood at the sink, drying my hands when I noticed the window no longer reflected me.
Outside, the evening watched alone.