The hallway has a sound
only late afternoons
know. A kettle, maybe,
or a door that doesn't
fully close. She used to
walk through it without
thinking. Now she slows
down, almost stopping,
as if her body still
believes someone is on
the other side waiting.
The kettle clicks off.
The house does not
answer. She puts the mug
down anyway, set for
two, and lets the
silence be what it is
today.