Her Trace

The night lay still, as it always had and always would.

She had been timelessly in love with the night, for its darkness comforted her, embraced her.

She breathed in the gentle breeze on her face.

Taking it all in.

Because tonight would be different.

She entered the house, closing the door. The photographs hanging on the wall, the novels stacked on the shelf, the garments in the closet-all were in their proper places. There was no difference.

Her hands trailed over the table, fingers running over an indentation she hadn't left. She moved along the hallway, feet tracing steps she had never taught herself but intuitively knew.

It was ordinary. It was natural.

But at other times, when the house was too still, she imagined hearing something. A voice. A whisper. A reminder.

She dismissed it.

It wouldn't matter. The change did not matter.

By dawn, no one would ask.

By dawn, she wouldn't either.