Rainlight pooled in the gutters like melted silver, the air fragrant with wet cedar from the old trees that lined the block. By the time Amara turned onto her street, the world had softened into something she almost recognized.
She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding... a long, trembling sigh that left her light-headed. Everything looked precisely as it should: trimmed hedges beading with rain, the slow drip from porch eaves, the soft gleam of water on siding. Normal. Yet her gaze snagged on every doorway and hedge-shadow, searching for a flash of Ruth's dress, a figure too still to be ordinary. Nothing. Just neighbors. Just her street. Still she scanned the block every few paces, an involuntary patrol meant to prove the morning's vision a passing fluke.
Mrs. Halpern knelt among her roses, trimming spent blooms into a wicker basket. She glanced up, cheeks pink from the damp, and smiled.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" Amara called, startled by the brightness of her own voice.
"Couldn't be better!" the older woman replied, snipping another stem and holding it up like a small trophy.
The ordinariness of the exchange settled over Amara like a warm shawl. For a heartbeat she almost believed in it, though her eyes slid past Mrs. Halpern to the empty sidewalk beyond. No Ruth.
Relief loosened the knot at the base of her neck. Ahead, the Bennett house glowed faintly, its white siding luminous under thinning clouds. The porch light, left on out of habit, cast a small halo even in daylight. Milo quickened his trot, tail thumping against the gate as if greeting an old friend.
Inside the yard, Amara moved by muscle memory. She toed off her damp shoes on the porch mat and let Milo dash ahead. His nails clicked across the wooden steps before he paused by the door with an expectant whine.
Afternoon sun slanted across the porch, warming the mismatched clay pots of herbs. Rain clung to basil and thyme like tiny prisms. Amara crouched and brushed a thumb along a slick leaf, breathing in its sharp green scent until her chest eased another degree. Still she cast a quick glance back to the street. Empty. Good.
The house met her with familiar scents: yesterday's coffee, and beneath it the faint trace of Elijah's cologne lingering in the hallway. She set the grocery bag on the counter, hung Milo's leash on its peg, and filled the kettle. Water hissed against metal a sound so ordinary it felt like blessing.
She moved through the kitchen like a pianist running scales: mug from the cupboard, tea bag from the tin, a quick sweep of crumbs from the counter. Each action steadied her heartbeat, aligning her with the life she knew. Yet between motions her eyes flicked to the window, half expecting a face pressed to the glass.
From her pocket she drew the slip of paper Elijah had left for her that morning and set it on the oak table.
Early shift. Don't wait up. Left you the car. Love, E.
The words sat there in his familiar looping hand, ordinary as breath.
Simple, affectionate words, yet for a moment they looked like a stranger's script. She traced the paper's edge, waiting for the usual warmth to bloom.
The kettle clicked. Steam curled upward, fogging the pane. Outside, two neighborhood children rode their bikes through a shallow puddle, shrieking with delight. Their laughter drifted in and settled on her chest like a gentle weight.
She carried her tea to the porch and sank into the wicker chair. The late-day light spread across the street in pale sheets. Milo sprawled at her feet, tail thumping lazily. She sipped the hot brew and greeted passing neighbors with a soft "Good afternoon," the words almost reflexive. Between greetings her gaze swept the sidewalk, searching for that familiar silhouette. Nothing.
Time stretched. A delivery van rumbled past. A breeze teased the curtains. Mrs. Halpern's roses swayed in slow rhythm.
The strange encounter, Ruth's shifting clothes, the antiseptic corridor began to feel distant, a dream smudged at the edges, the sort that slips away before breakfast. Perhaps it would settle there, alongside other minor confusions: a tune half-remembered, a name on the tip of the tongue.
Yet her body would not fully unclench. The muscles at the base of her skull remained taut, and now and then she turned her head sharply, certain she'd caught movement in the periphery. Each time she found only dripping branches and the lazy dance of rainlight on pavement.
She rose to water the porch herbs. The spray caught the late sun and broke into soft mist. Damp soil mingled with the faint steam of her tea, grounding her in the domestic present. Milo followed, nosing the pots, sneezing at the sharp green scent of the tomato leaves. She laughed, startled by the sound, then fell silent again, listening for something she could not name.
The afternoon slipped toward half-past five in gentle increments. She answered a few emails, hummed a fragment of last night's Coltrane record, straightened the magazines on the coffee table. Each small task felt like stitching herself back into the day. Yet between motions her eyes flicked to the door, half expecting a knock, half dreading it.
When the streetlamps finally glimmered against the dimming sky, Amara released another slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding since the sidewalk first tilted. The city's ordinary rhythm cars hushing down the wet street, distant voices, the faint tick of the house settling returned to a manageable murmur.
Perhaps the morning's fracture would fade into cluttered memory, a slip explained by rain and fatigue. Tomorrow it might be nothing more than an odd story to tell Elijah over dinner.
Still, as she stood at the kitchen window, tea cooling in her hand, one thought remained, cool and unshakable:
If the world can blink once, it can blink again.
The kettle popped as it cooled, a sharp metallic click that echoed too loudly in the quiet room. And beneath the layered scents of basil and rain, she caught, only for an instant, a sterile trace of something clean to the point of cruelty.
A faint hospital beep seemed to sound somewhere beyond the walls, so soft it might have been memory.
Amara closed her eyes.
The house, warm and ordinary, held its breath.