The Day I Heard Your Footsteps Leave Forever

The day I heard your footsteps leave forever I was standing at the window with my palm against the glass and understood too late that some sounds are only loud because they will never return.

Rain had just ended and the street below shone like darkened metal. Water slipped from the eaves in steady drops that counted time more faithfully than any clock. The house smelled of damp linen and the ashes of a fire left to die on its own. You stood in the narrow hall behind me adjusting your coat. I did not turn. I listened instead to the small precise sounds you made as if by memorizing them I could keep them from fading. When you finally stepped outside the door closed with a softness that felt intentional and cruel.

We had been given the room by my uncle who believed walls could keep young people safe from themselves. The ceiling sloped and the window faced the street where carts passed each morning. In winter the glass iced over and in summer it rattled in the heat. We lived there quietly careful to leave no trace of ourselves. You taught at the academy and came home with chalk on your cuffs. I worked as a copyist and brought ink stains with me no matter how often I washed my hands.

Evenings were our truest hours. Lamplight softened everything. You read aloud sometimes pausing to consider a phrase. I listened more to the sound of your voice than to the meaning of the words. When silence fell it did not hurry us. We shared it like a language learned together. Once your hand found mine on the table and stayed there. Neither of us commented. We did not need to.

Outside the city shifted with the times. New laws were announced. New loyalties expected. You grew quieter. Your gaze lingered on the street longer than before. When I asked what troubled you you smiled and said nothing that mattered. I pretended to believe you.

The letter came folded small and creased from being handled too often. You read it twice then placed it carefully on the table. You said there was an offer. You said it would be safer. You did not say for whom. I asked how long you would be gone. You said you did not know. That was the moment something in me closed without sound.

We lived the days after that with exaggerated normalcy. We ate simple meals. We spoke of work. At night I listened to your breathing and counted the spaces between. I told myself that love could survive absence. I told myself many things that sounded like hope.

The morning you left the rain fell hard and straight. You packed quietly. At the door you hesitated. I felt it even without looking. You said my name once. I said yours once. The words lay between us unfinished. When the door closed the house seemed to lean inward as if to listen.

Life afterward was orderly. I continued my work. I moved to smaller rooms. I married briefly and kindly and lost him to illness before habit could deepen. Grief came in layers and left in the same way. Through it all some part of me remained tuned to sound.

Years passed. One afternoon in a crowded square I heard footsteps behind me that matched yours perfectly. My heart lifted before my mind could stop it. I turned. It was not you. The disappointment was sharp and fleeting like cold water.

When I finally did see you again it was by chance at a gathering neither of us had planned to attend. Your hair was touched with gray. Your posture held new caution. When you said my name it sounded worn smooth by time. We spoke politely at first then more honestly as the evening thinned.

We walked outside where the street was quiet and damp with recent rain. You said leaving had been necessary. I said staying had been too. We did not argue. There was nothing left to prove. When we stopped you reached out and touched my arm lightly as if asking permission. I did not pull away.

At parting there were no promises. Only understanding. I watched you walk down the street until distance softened your shape. I listened to your footsteps fade and felt the ache rise and settle into something that resembled peace.

That night at my window I placed my palm against the glass again. The street was empty. Rain began softly. I listened and let the sound pass through me and go.