The Witnesses

Marisol had cleaned up after death for twelve years, and she'd learned that objects always outlasted people. Sometimes it was the little things that broke your heart—not the blood or the violence, but the half-eaten papaya on the counter, flesh turning brown where the fork had pierced it.

The victim's name was Elena, fifty-two, found by her sister after three days. Marisol worked quickly and methodically, the movements of her cleaning cloth matching the rhythm of her breathing. In, out. In, out. This was how she survived.

Through the sliding glass door, the dog—a golden retriever named Max—sat on the patio, watching her with patient, expectant eyes. The sister had taken him to the vet yesterday, but he'd escaped and returned, waiting for someone who wasn't coming back. Every time Marisol looked up, he was still there, a witness to her work.

The cat had no such loyalty. A calico that Elena had fed from the palm of her hand, according to the weeping sister, now sat on the roof of the neighbor's house, tail curled around its paws, regarding everything with cool detachment. Marisol envied that—to observe without being affected, to move through the world leaving no痕迹.

Outside, the palm fronds whispered against the window, a sound like endless paper shuffling. Elena had planted this tree when she bought the house, the sister said. Twenty years of growth, reaching toward something.

Marisol paused, her hand hovering over the papaya. In the end, we were all just waiting for someone to feed us, to notice us, to remember we existed. She threw the fruit into her biohazard bag, sealed it tight, and turned away from the window. The dog was still there.

She finished the job in silence. Tomorrow, she would clean somewhere else. But tonight, she would take the dog.