Member-only story
The One Who Knew and the Rooms Left Empt
Silence, distance, and unfinished stories
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You are not the helpless child I watched sleeping this morning. The red T-shirt you wore had bunched up around your waist, your fists were clenched, and you were grinding your teeth — probably a bad dream. I slipped out of bed and into the day, a day that “rhymed” perfectly with the one ten days ago: ugly, cold, rainy, autumn. Just before I locked the door behind me, I heard you stirring awake. I turned the key in the lock and left, telling myself I’d find you just as I’d left you.
I’d left your cigarettes, glasses, phone, and keys within reach. I had been the perfect host — except for the ending. This time, I didn’t walk you to the bus, as I had on other occasions. Instead, I slid back into life, hoping to find you unchanged when I returned.
It’s true what they say: the perfect hosts are housekeepers. They come to tidy the room in your absence — changing the sheets, refreshing the flowers, swapping out the towels in the bathroom. They take your soiled clothes for cleaning, iron your shirts, and leave a surprise by the dresser near the window overlooking the boulevard.
