Lingering Whispers

The silence in the house was a new thing, a fragile thing, like spun glass that might shatter at any moment. For days, Salsa had found herself holding her breath, listening. Not for the creak of floorboards or the rustle of curtains, but for something more insidious, something that used to fill the spaces between those sounds. It was the absence of Melissa that was the loudest noise of all. Emma, too, seemed to walk on tiptoe, her bright eyes scanning corners, her laughter a little too quick to fade. The world outside their windows was vibrant and alive, the sun a cheerful splash of gold, but within the walls of their home, a subtle chill had settled, a ghost of a memory that refused to be entirely banished.

One afternoon, Emma was drawing at the kitchen table, her crayons scattered like fallen jewels. She’d been drawing a sun, a big, joyous sun with rays that stretched to the edges of the paper. But as Salsa watched, Emma paused, her small hand hovering. She picked up a black crayon, one that had been tucked away at the very bottom of the box, and began to trace a long, thin shadow that snaked from the edge of the sun. Salsa’s heart gave a little lurch.

“Who’s that, sweetie?” Salsa asked, her voice carefully light, as if she were asking about a new friend at school.