The phone vibrates once,
twice, three times. She
doesn't pick it up. The
screen lights the kitchen
counter, illuminating dust
motes hanging in the air
like suspended snow. Her
mother's voice would
crack if she answered —
she knows the rhythm of
it by heart, the way
worry tightens into a
knot of questions.
She lets it ring. The
coffee maker gurgles to
silence. She pours a
cup, black, no sugar,
the bitterness a familiar
companion. The voicemail
icon appears. She
doesn't tap it.
Instead, she opens the
photo album, scrolls to
a picture of them at the
beach — wind-tangled
hair, smiles she's
forgotten how to wear.
Her thumb traces the
screen. The coffee
cools. The phone dims.
Somewhere in another time
zone, her mother is
still awake, counting the
hours until morning. She
sets the phone
face-down, takes a sip.
The steam fades into nothing.