Ghosts of the Morning
A short story
The knife sits in the sink, smeared with butter and breadcrumbs, a relic from breakfast that feels like a lifetime ago, though it was only hours. The butter, now congealed, clings to the steel blade as if holding on to the last vestiges of warmth from the toast.
I stare at it as though it might speak, as though it might tell me why the silence in this apartment feels like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest.
Outside, the city is waking up, or perhaps it never slept. The hum of traffic from the avenue below rises and falls like the breath of some great beast.
It’s only morning, but already I feel the day slipping away from me, lost to the ghosts of the past that refuse to let me be.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but the light filtering through the window has shifted, taking on a sharpness that wasn’t there before.
I drag my gaze from the knife, try to shake the fog from my mind, but it lingers, clinging like a damp mist that seeps into everything.
The apartment is still – too still – yet I hear echoes of conversations that never happened, arguments that only played out in my mind. The walls, thick with the accumulation of years, seem to absorb all sound, all life, until the quiet becomes unbearable.
The radio plays in the background, a soft jazz number that seems to mock the heaviness in the room.
My mother’s voice slips into my thoughts, unbidden.
“You’re wasting your life in that city,” she used to say, her tone a mix of exasperation and pity.
But I never listened.
I wanted to disappear into the anonymity of New York, where the skyline could swallow me whole, and no one would notice if I ceased to exist. I came here to escape, to shed the skin of who I was, but I’ve found that the past has a way of following you, no matter how far you run.
The city offered me its secrets, but in return, it took something from me – something I can’t quite name but feel the absence of every day.
The phone rings. The shrill sound slices through the air, startling me out of my reverie.
I let it ring twice, three times, before reaching for the receiver. My hand hovers above it, and for a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but the pull is too strong.
The voice on the other end is familiar, too familiar, and my stomach tightens as the memories flood back.
“It’s been a while,” she says, her tone too casual, as if the years between us were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
I don’t respond immediately, the sheer magnitude of our history hanging heavy in the air.
“How are you?” she asks when the dead air lingers, and I can hear the edge of something – uncertainty, perhaps – creeping into her voice.
“How am I?” I want to laugh, but the sound catches in my throat.
I want to tell her about the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the days lost in a fog of regret, but I don’t.
Instead, I murmur something noncommittal and wait for her to say what she’s really calling about.
“I’m coming to the city,” she says finally, and I feel the ground shift beneath me.
I can see her face in my mind’s eye as it was the last time I saw her – gaunt, pale, her eyes hollow with the burden of things unsaid.
She doesn’t ask if I want to see her; she simply assumes I do. And maybe she’s right.
Maybe I’ve been waiting for this, for her, all along.
The rest of the conversation passes in a blur, her words washing over me without sinking in.
When I hang up, the room feels colder, as if she’s already here, her presence seeping into the walls, into the very air I breathe.
I close my eyes and try to remember the last time we were together, try to recall the warmth we once shared, but all I can summon is the image of her walking away, her back rigid, her shoulders squared against the hurt she knew she was leaving behind.
The city looms outside the window, indifferent to the turmoil inside.
I feel it, the relentless pull of the past, dragging me back to a time when everything seemed simpler, though it never was.
We were just better at pretending.
The doorbell rings, and I know it’s her before I even answer it.
She steps inside, and for a moment, we stand there, staring at each other, the heaviness of our shared history pressing down on us.
She looks the same – older, maybe, but the same – and the sight of her stirs something deep within me, something I thought I’d buried long ago.
We sit taciturn, the space between us filled with all the words we’re too afraid to say.
I watch her as she takes in the apartment, her gaze lingering on the knife in the sink, on the bookshelves lined with volumes that have gone unread for years.
There’s something in her eyes – a sadness, perhaps, or maybe just weariness – and I feel the distance between us grow, even as we sit only feet apart.
“I thought you’d be different,” she says finally, her voice soft, almost wistful.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak.
“I thought I’d be different too,” I want to say, but the words catch in my throat, trapped by the years of reticence that have come between us.
She sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the weight of a lifetime, and I wonder if this is it, if this is all that’s left of what we once had.
But then she looks at me, really looks at me, and I see something in her eyes – a flicker of the girl I once knew, the girl I loved with a ferocity that scared me even then.
And in that moment, I know that whatever happens next, we’re not the same people we were before.
We’re not the same, and that’s okay. Maybe it’s better that way.
The sun is setting now, casting long shadows across the room, and I feel a sense of peace settle over me, a quiet acceptance of what is and what will never be.
We sit together, the silence no longer oppressive, and for the first time in years, I feel a flicker of hope.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe this is all we ever needed.
And as the last light of day fades from the sky, I know that, for now, it’s enough.
The past may be inescapable, but the future is still unwritten, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of what it might hold.
The phone rings again, but this time I don’t answer.
Instead, I turn to her, and we talk – really talk – until the darkness outside is complete and the city falls silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.
And as we sit there, side by side, I realize that sometimes, the only way to move forward is to face the ghosts of the morning and let them go.
© Ani Eldritch, 2024.
