Fiction | Short Story

Solitude Is a Human Presumption

Why can’t we imagine, just for the sake of argument, that a joyful spirit leaves some of themselves behind—an echo of joy in a place they once loved?

Why Chicago

It was the wrong type of quietthis isn’t what I bargained for at all

What do I say?

Why would there have been anything written in my closet?

Maybe this was the pareidolia of someone who avoids human interactioninstead of seeing faces in toast, you see words on a wall

I really need to clean . . .

What do I say?

It was the wrong type of quietthis isn’t what I bargained for at all.

The woman must have made a mistake,

Something needed to give

my

Maybe I am not seeing things after all

Oh no, oh no.

I hope I can talk to her more.

Gratitude.