She boiled water for tea
she wouldn't drink. The
kettle's whistle cut
through the silence,
sharp and brief, then
faded. She poured the
steaming water into a
cup, watched the leaves
unfurl, and set it on
the counter. The steam
curled upward, vanishing
into the dark kitchen.
The apartment was still.
Her footsteps on the
hardwood were the only
sound, soft and
deliberate. She walked to
the window, pressed her
forehead to the cool
glass, and looked down
at the empty street. A
single car passed, its
headlights sweeping across
the walls before
disappearing.
She returned to the
kitchen. The tea was
still too hot. She left
it there, a small ritual
of preparation without
consumption. The clock
read 3:15. The night
pressed in, quiet and
patient, and she let
it.