The Last Light on Briar Street

She left the key under the mat, the way she always had. The door still knew her — creaked twice, then settled into silence. The kitchen smelled of coffee and yesterday. She didn't turn on the lights. Some rooms are best held in darkness, before memory has a chance to rearrange the furniture. She stood there for sixty seconds, maybe less, counting the shapes she used to love. A coat hook without a coat. A chair pushed too far from the table. A window still cracked since that winter argument that neither of them ever named. She put the key back and walked away without looking up.