She sat on the edge of
the mattress, the blanket
twisted at her feet. The
window was open, and the
night air carried the
smell of wet pavement.
A photograph lay face-up
on the nightstand — her
mother, mid-laugh, hair
messy. She traced the
outline of that smile
with her finger.
The house felt too wide,
too quiet. She pulled
the blanket up to her
chin, but the cold
stayed rooted in her
chest.
I'm not ready for this.
She closed her eyes. The
streetlamp cast a pale
square on the ceiling,
and she counted its edges
until the tears came —
silent, hot,
unstoppable. She let them
fall without wiping them
away.