The Space Between the Last Seen and the Next Word

They say disappearance is not a moment

but a widening.

Not the door closing—

not the garage light blinking out—

but the air afterward,

stretching itself thin over the neighborhood

like plastic pulled across unfinished construction.

Her name still lived in the house.

It hung from coat hooks.

It rested in the shallow bowl beside the keys.

It leaned patiently against the inside of the refrigerator

as though it had always belonged there.

Neighbors watered their lawns

with the quiet concentration of witnesses

who would later insist

they had noticed nothing unusual

except perhaps the way the dog down the street

refused to stop staring at the same empty corner.

The cameras remembered differently.

They remembered a figure made of intention,

a silhouette cut from the fabric of decision,

standing where no invitation had been extended.

The mailbox contained only advertisements and dust.

Morning arrived as if it had earned the right.

Sunlight stepped carefully across the driveway

and paused at the threshold,

uncertain whether it was still welcome.

Her daughter spoke her name out loud

to test whether sound alone

could reverse direction,

could unmake whatever had already been made.

Search teams moved in grids,

their footsteps rehearsing order

against the chaos beneath the soil.

Somewhere, a clock continued

without permission.

This line is about a cracked coffee mug left in a sink in another city.

No one mentioned the way absence has weight,

how it presses downward,

how it settles into furniture

and refuses to be lifted.

The street remained obedient to routine.

Cars arrived.

Cars left.

The world kept accepting itself

without revision.

And still, something lingered—

not her,

but the exact shape where she had been,

holding its breath,

waiting for someone to notice

it was still there.