I left a note under your door

Summer stayed too long that year. The river kept its level, the hills burned pale, and everyone moved slower, as if time had decided not to press. She spent afternoons barefoot, sitting where the grass thinned into dirt, watching nothing in particular. Cars passed rarely. When they did, the sound lingered. Some evenings smelled like dust and water and something metallic. She learned the shape of waiting before she learned what she was waiting for.