The Light That Never Learned to Leave

The voicemail ended before she was ready and the phone went quiet in her hand. June stood in the narrow kitchen and stared at the small red light that refused to blink again. The kettle screamed on the stove. She turned it off without lifting her eyes. Outside a ferry horn sounded and cut short as if reconsidering.

She sat at the table and waited for the weight to settle somewhere she could carry it. It chose her shoulders. June Evelyn Parker folded the paper she had been given that morning and placed it beneath the salt cellar. Her full name printed at the top felt stiff and distant like a coat borrowed for an occasion she did not want.

The apartment faced the harbor and had always been too bright. Light poured in and made everything feel exposed. She pulled the curtains halfway and left them there. The walls smelled faintly of paint and citrus cleaner. She could still hear his footsteps in the hallway if she let herself. She did not.

Night brought a tide that glowed. The harbor lights laid a path across the water that never quite reached shore. She watched from the window with her arms wrapped around herself. The path flickered and steadied. She felt watched and then felt foolish for naming it.

Sleep found her on the couch. Sometime before dawn the lamp turned on. The room warmed by a degree she could feel in her bones. She did not open her eyes. She counted breaths until the light clicked off again and the warmth thinned.

Morning came gray. She showered and dressed and went to the pier. The boards were slick. Gulls picked at nothing. She stopped where he used to stop and listened. Beneath the small sounds there was a steadier one a low rhythm that matched the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes. The water near the pilings calmed.

She stepped back. The calm broke. June Evelyn Parker laughed once and pressed her palm to her mouth. The sound felt wrong in the open air.

At work she answered emails and avoided the window. When she returned home the paper had slipped from beneath the salt cellar and lay open on the table. The red light on her phone blinked once and went dark. She did not touch either.

That evening she cooked and burned the bottom of the pan. The smoke alarm chirped and stopped. The window above the sink opened a crack. Steam escaped. She stood very still. Thank you she said and felt ridiculous and relieved.

Days learned a pattern. The presence arrived with the harbor lights and left with dawn. It stayed near thresholds and glass. It never crossed the room. She felt it like a held breath. When she moved toward it the warmth retreated.

One afternoon she opened the drawer she had been avoiding. Inside lay a ticket stub and a small flashlight that no longer worked. She turned it over in her hands. The warmth settled close at her shoulder. The harbor light outside brightened. She did not turn. I cannot keep you she said softly. The warmth lingered and then thinned.

A storm came in fast. Rain hammered the windows. The harbor lights blurred and doubled. She stood in the dark and felt the presence closer than ever. The light path on the water sharpened and reached the pier. Her heart hurt. She shook her head. Not like this. The light wavered and pulled back.

When the storm passed the apartment felt larger and emptier. She slept through the night. In the morning the red light on her phone stayed dark. The paper remained folded.

Weeks later she stood on the pier at dusk. The harbor lights came on one by one. She took the flashlight from her pocket and held it until it warmed. She spoke his full name into the open air Matthew Lucas Parker and felt how far away it sounded how finished. She dropped the flashlight into the water and watched the circles spread and fade.

She turned back as the light path shortened. The wind carried salt and then nothing. The apartment behind her waited without watching. She closed the door and let the night learn how to be quiet.