The morning felt wrong. The door, always latched before sleep, resisted as it opened, as though something unseen had passed through first. One presence remained, yet the chair by the window had moved—angled slightly, as if someone had left in a hurry.
Nothing changed in the ways that should have mattered. A book lay where it had been left, pages curled from restless fingers. The cardigan lay draped over the chair, untouched. Its folds remained undisturbed, as if still molded to absent shoulders.
The space wasn’t empty—something lingered. The mirror showed its usual reflection until, for a moment, a flicker: a shift, a shape, a presence not meant to be seen. And then it was gone. Could it have been just a trick of exhaustion?
The house held a quiet that felt frayed at the edges, as if echoes of past sounds still clung to the air, unwilling to fade entirely. The clock ticked: steady, constant. Yet nothing had moved. Morning should have come, but time held its breath.
At the window, a familiar mug rested on the sill, the last sip untouched. The porch light, left burning overnight, cast a glow onto the steps. A muted sound disrupted the quiet—hesitant, incomplete.
It wasn’t really a voice at all, just a gentle echo that lingered, leaving a trace of absence where someone should have been.
The Echo of Absence
by Kerry Ann Wiley
The door was left unlocked that night,
or so it seemed by morning’s light.
No footprints marked the dust-stilled floor,
yet something stirred behind the door.
A chair was drawn, though none had sat.
A curtain stirred without a draft.
A mirror caught what wasn’t there,
a movement gone, a hollow stare.
The clock still ticked, though hands stood still.
A breathless hush, a nameless chill.
The porch light burned in vacant glow,
a beacon meant for those below.
A whisper rose, a fractured tune,
a hum beneath the thinning moon.
Yet when the room was turned to face,
only absence filled the space.
What Remains
Some absences leave lasting echoes—a door that closes behind someone who will never return, a chair left askew, a cardigan still marked by a vanished embrace.
In the quiet aftermath, familiar details speak of a presence once cherished: the mug at the window, the steady glow of the porch light, even the half-heard murmur of a voice.
Absence lingers in half‐heard sounds and in the disorder of misplaced objects. It fills a once familiar space with palpable emptiness. In these quiet shifts, the mark of someone who has left remains—a simple reminder that someone was here.
And now, they are gone.
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