The call came on a Saturday. It was several hours later than expected, and yet it still felt far too early.
I was sitting on the couch, folding laundry. Towels rested in a soft pile beside me, along with faded t-shirts, a pair of jeans worn thin at one knee, and pajama pants stretched out of shape.
It was the kind of task that demanded no thought—just the repetition of motion, steady and mindless.
When the phone lit up, it went unanswered at first. It rang once, maybe twice. The outcome was already clear. A quiet certainty had settled in—sharp and still—before a single word was spoken. The voice on the other end was flat and measured. It didn’t offer comfort, only facts. She was gone.
She used to brush the hair from my eyes and slip me orange soda when my mother said no. She always left the screen door unlatched, just in case someone came for a visit. Now she was gone.
It was just a regular Saturday. Two weeks had passed since I last called her.
Still, the news caught me off guard. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? Plans are made—a call, a visit, a promise that there’s still time. The hours slip by, spent on small, forgettable chores that feel important in the moment. It is easy to believe they matter. Then a door closes, and everything stops. I’m left standing in the silence, a towel in my hands, too stunned to move.
Afterward, I sat on the couch beside the stack of folded laundry. The hum of the dryer had stopped, but I hadn’t noticed. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. A child’s laugh drifted past the window. Everything else continued. I was the only one who hadn’t.
No one expects the emptiness to feel so ordinary. One minute, they are there—sending cards in the mail, leaving voicemails just to say hi, folding a joke into every conversation.
Then, without warning, there is only silence. The phone does not ring back. The house is too far away to check. The people we grew up with seem ageless until the quiet becomes routine.
Her laugh used to carry across picnic tables and church halls. It was a sound stitched into summer reunions and holiday gatherings. Bold floral prints made her easy to spot.
She never seemed afraid of being seen. She was the hardest worker, always moving from one task to the next faster than most. It felt like she was racing an invisible clock no one else could hear. There is still a note on her fridge. Her handwriting curls gently across the paper: “Don’t forget the little things.” No one has moved it.
Sometimes people slip into the background, becoming a quiet fixture of what is routine—steady, familiar, and almost unnoticed. Then, without warning, they are gone. Something quiet but anchoring slips out of place.
It came on a Saturday. It came while the coffee sat cooling in its cup.
It came while the laundry was only half folded.
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