"The First 3AM"
The sound of grief isn't loud. It's the silence afterward that fills your chest like water
The clock beside her bed blinked 2:59 AM.
Madaline Hart lay awake, the ceiling fan above humming its soft lullaby. Her eyes, half-shut, drifted over the shadowed corners of her room. The night was deep, the kind that felt like it would never end. She hadn't slept in days not truly. Not since the hospital. Not since her mother's hand slipped from hers.
Beep.3:00 AM.
And thenA sound.A presence.
She felt it before she saw it.
Her eyes flicked to the window, expecting the usual dark outline of her curtains. But someone was sitting there. Quietly. Calmly.
A boy.
He didn't move. His head was slightly bowed, elbows resting on his knees, like he had been waiting for hours. The moonlight edged his profile in silver. Madaline's breath caught in her throat—not out of fear, but something stranger. Like she was looking at a memory she didn't remember making.
"Hello?" she whispered.
No response.He didn't look at her. Just gazed out the window, as if watching something far beyond the glass.
She reached for her lamp.
Click.The light flickered on
And he was gone.
The room was empty again. Curtains. Window. Silence.
She stared at the empty seat, her chest rising and falling with slow, uncertain breaths. Maybe it was a dream. A waking trick of the mind. Lack of sleep. Too many old photos.
But still...There was the faintest impression on the window seat cushion, as if someone had just been there.