The Hum of Empty Rooms

The coaxial cable lay coiled like a dead snake behind the television, a reminder of the service she'd canceled three months ago when Mark left. Elena sat on the floor of their apartment—now just hers—sorting through the box of his things he'd never bothered to collect.

She found the bottle of vitamin D supplements in his nightstand. 'For your bones,' he'd said last winter, pressing the bottle into her hand during one of those increasingly rare tender moments. She'd laughed, told him she was thirty-two, not eighty. Now she twisted the cap open and dry-swallowed one, as if the act itself could somehow fortify her against the hollow ache that had taken up residence in her chest.

Buster, Mark's retriever mix, stirred from his bed in the corner. The dog had chosen to stay with her, a loyalty that felt almost like betrayal. He padded over and rested his heavy head on her knee, his amber eyes holding a wisdom that made her want to weep.

'You miss him too, don't you?' she whispered, fingers buried in his copper fur.

Her phone buzzed—Mark's name lighting up the screen. Her heart performed its familiar trick, that hopeful little skip before reality crashed back in. He was probably calling about the cable bill, or the dog, or some other logistical remnant of their life together.

Elena watched the screen brighten and dim, brighten and dim, until it went dark. Buster sighed, a long, shuddering exhale, and nudged her hand with his wet nose.

'Yeah,' she said, swallowing the bitterness that rose like bile. 'Me neither.'

She dropped the vitamin bottle into the donation box with the rest of it. The cable would stay disconnected. The dog would sleep beside her tonight. Tomorrow she'd call the provider and have everything transferred to her name—the first step in making this silence her own.