After her mother moved to
the smaller apartment,
Mara kept walking back to
the old kitchen out of
habit. She stood there
some nights without
opening anything — the
fridge hummed, the tap
dripped on its own
schedule, and she wasn't
sure which city she was
living in anymore, or
which version of herself
had last boiled water
here. She didn't cry.
There was just a lot of
room where things used to
be. Eventually she filled
the kettle. Not because
she wanted tea. Because
the sound of water
heating was something she
knew how to wait for.