The Window That Stayed Open After Summer

The window was open and rain had already come through. Water pooled on the sill and ran down the wall in a thin uneven line. The screen rattled once and went still. Somewhere nearby a door closed and did not reopen. She stood in the small bedroom knowing the damage was done and would not be blamed on the storm.

Hannah Louise Morrison pressed a towel against the wall and watched it darken. The house in Cedar Ridge had been empty for months and now it belonged to her long enough to be emptied again. She had returned that morning with a single suitcase and the instruction to decide what stayed and what left. The air smelled of damp wood and summer dust.

She moved through the rooms slowly. Floors creaked in places she remembered avoiding as a child. The kitchen window faced the yard where the apple tree leaned farther each year. She closed the window and latched it with more care than necessary. The rain continued anyway.

By afternoon the town had noticed her car. She walked down the short main road where the post office and cafe shared a wall. The bell rang when she entered. Coffee steamed and conversation paused. She felt the pause settle and pass.

Outside again she heard her full name spoken clearly. Hannah Louise Morrison. The voice was familiar and held at a distance.

Ethan William Parker stood across the street by his truck with the driver door open. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were marked with grease. He smiled briefly and then let it go. He did not cross the street.

They spoke about the rain and the apple harvest and the way the river flooded last spring. Their words stayed safe. The town listened and then turned away. When they parted neither of them said goodbye.

That evening Hannah sat on the floor of the living room with a box of photographs. Faces looked back unchanged by time. She found one of the two of them standing by the open window years ago sunlight on their shoulders. She turned it face down and left it there.

The rain stopped after dark. Crickets filled the quiet. She slept with the window closed and dreamed of air moving freely through the house.

In the morning she walked the dirt road toward the river. The ground was soft and held her footprints. The water moved brown and full. Ethan stood on the bank skipping stones that did not skip. He nodded when he saw her and waited.

They walked along the river without choosing a direction. He spoke of his father and the long days repairing engines that would not be driven far. She spoke of cities and rooms that never felt finished. Their voices were low. The river took everything and carried it on.

At midday they ate at the small kitchen table. Light moved across the surface as clouds passed. She noticed the way he set his glass down carefully and remembered how that care once felt like a promise. The thought stayed longer than she wanted.

In the afternoon they closed windows and checked doors. The house felt smaller with each room finished. The apple tree dropped a fruit that split on the ground. Neither of them picked it up.

At dusk they stood in the yard watching the sky thin. He asked when she would leave. She said tomorrow. The word felt heavy and exact.

On the final morning the suitcase waited by the door. Hannah looked once more at the window now dry and shut. Ethan stood on the porch with his hands in his pockets.

She handed him the spare key and said his full name then. Ethan William Parker. It sounded like a line drawn carefully. He nodded and stepped back.

She drove away as the house settled behind her. The window stayed closed. The rain returned later without asking. What had passed through remained.