The calendar still shows
March. She has walked
past it seventeen times
today, and each time her
eyes slide over the date
like it is written in a
language she no longer
speaks.
The apartment is quiet in
a way that feels
borrowed, like she is
waiting for someone to
return it to its rightful
owner. She makes tea she
does not finish. She
opens a book to page
forty-three, the same
page she opened
yesterday.
Outside, the city moves
with purpose. Inside,
she stands at the window
and watches the light
change without deciding
what the changing light
means.
The calendar will stay on
March until she is
ready. That is the only
promise she makes today.