The apartment used to
greet her with silence —
the kind that felt like
standing in a field after
snow. She started leaving
the hallway light on
before work, so coming
home would feel less like
arriving at an empty
page. It's a small
ritual, nothing more:
coat on the hook, kettle
on, the lamp throwing
its warm circle across
the floor. Loneliness
hasn't left; it just
sits farther from the
window now. Some nights
she talks to the rooms
the way you'd hum while
cleaning. The rooms
don't answer. But they
hold the light until
she's ready.