In the gloom of dusk, under the light of a single overhead bulb, she sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette balanced between two fingers. The smoke twists and twirls, waltzing away into the long night. A pile of bobby pins and a stray hair elastic teeter at the wood’s edge, half discarded from the day’s exhaustion. The woman leans back in her chair, legs crossed, eyes closed. She exhales a smoke-heavy breath, disrupting the dance of light.
The house was finally quiet. The setting sun threw heavy shadows, dividing the place into light and dark puddles. The bulb above her head hummed, its filament almost burnt out. She didn’t live here; the silence was too hostile in its echoes, like a cat standing with its back arched as a stranger approached—the silence hissed in her ears.
Still, she sat, indulging in the last drags of her cigarette. She would have to collect her things and return home in a moment. It was a long drive; the winding, narrow roads to this place were stressful enough in the daylight, but now, as the sun dipped further, they could be dangerous.
The hand holding her cigarette shook. The tremors rattled up her arm to the elbow, causing ash to trickle down her hand and onto the table. She would have to clean that up, too.
Her gaze flickered briefly to the near-empty table—the long-forgotten coffee cup, the scattering of old receipts and unpaid bills. They were the artifacts of someone who called this place home. The cigarette burned like a lighthouse in the night.
She shifted in her chair, the hairs on the back of her neck rising with the sensation of being watched as if something else was in the room with her, just beyond the light of the bare bulb above. The air moved around her—close, almost like someone had taken a great breath.
She stubbed the near-finished cigarette out on the table, crushing it between her fingers. The chair creaked as she leaned forward and reached for the full pack. Her hand seemed to move as if underwater, floating and detached from the rest of her body. She could feel her fingertips brushing over the cardboard, but the tremors continued as she stood up and moved toward the door.
The weight of the house’s silence had altered the space, but she wasn’t sure how. Everything looked the same, and yet it was completely different. At the door’s threshold, she stopped and turned, taking in the place once more. The bulb flickered for a few moments, then sputtered and died. The house went dark.
She froze.
She had felt the air move again as if that presence had taken one step closer to her. It sat too still now, like a predator frozen before the kill. She knew there was nothing here for her anymore—no reason to wait any longer. She turned the knob and stepped out into the night. The chill in the air was sharp on her cheeks, and her eyes started watering as she walked to her car.
The road home would still be winding, dark, and even a bit lonely. But as she pulled the door closed behind her, she smiled to herself. The car’s engine roared to life, drowning out her other thoughts. She drove away, leaving the house behind, its darkness no longer her concern.
When she glanced into the rearview mirror, the house was just a silhouette and the blood around her mouth had dried.
CupsOfSilver 
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