The clock ticked softly against the wall, each sound stretching into the quiet air. Fred sat on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together.
The apartment felt too still. The curtains barely moved even though the window was open. It was strange, he thought, how silence could feel so heavy.
He looked around. Everything was neat — too neat. The coffee table was empty, the floor clean, the kitchen counter bare.
There used to be a mug there, always the same one, half full and forgotten. It would stay until evening, when she’d laugh and say she’d make another cup anyway. Now the counter stayed spotless.
Fred rubbed his palm over his face and leaned back. The air smelled faintly of coffee and dust, a mix of the past and the present.
He stared at the ceiling for
