It starts with the air—
that first shiver of wind
threading through trees.
Leaves loosen their grip
in tired surrender,
fluttering to the ground
like broken promises.
I watch them gather
along the fence line
as the sky grows dark early.
I pull sweaters from drawers
and feel that familiar ache.
Mom asks if I'm coming
home for Christmas this year.
I say maybe,
like I always do.
She doesn't ask why.
The wind picks up.
Somewhere, a door slams hard.
My body flinches
before my mind can stop it,
and for a heartbeat,
I see him standing
in the doorway again.
And I pretend
not to hear the echo—
that dissonant chord
beneath November wind,
the sound of something breaking
and never being the same.
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