At 2 a.m., the
apartment hummed. Not
with people, but with
the refrigerator's low
thrum and the occasional
drip of the kitchen
faucet. She sat on the
floor, back against the
sofa, knees pulled to
her chest. The city's
glow seeped through the
blinds, casting long,
pale stripes across the
carpet.
A mug of tea had gone
cold on the coffee
table, its surface a
mirror for the ceiling
light. She didn't reach
for it. She just
listened to the hum,
letting it fill the space
where her thoughts should
be.
The clock on the
microwave ticked over to
2:03. She traced a
pattern on the carpet
with her finger, a
spiral that went nowhere.
Her phone buzzed once on
the table. She didn't
look.
Outside, a siren wailed
in the distance, fading
into the night. The hum
returned. She pulled the
blanket from the couch
and wrapped it around her
shoulders, settling into
the quiet as if it were
a room of its own.