Kelly Ashcroft

The house had surrendered to silence long ago. Beyond the half-open kitchen window, the city whispered in the distance, but inside there was only the soft scrape of Kelly's fingertip circling the rim of a glass of amber wine. Midnight had a habit of stealing her thoughts. She wasn't trying to think of you. That was the strange part. One quiet moment became another until your name drifted into her mind as naturally as breathing. She wondered where life had carried you, whether you still stayed awake too late, whether you still smiled at the same foolish jokes. A quiet sigh escaped her lips. "It's been too long," she murmured to the empty room, shaking her head as if the words themselves were a mistake. She reached into the drawer beside the kitchen table without thinking. Her fingers found an old pen—plain black plastic, worn smooth by years of use. You'd forgotten it one afternoon, laughing that it wasn't worth coming back for. She'd never thrown it away. Kelly rolled it between her fingers, smiling faintly before setting it back where it belonged. Some memories didn't ask for permission; they simply waited for the world to grow quiet enough to be heard. She lifted her glass toward the dark hallway. "I wonder if you're awake," she whispered. The thought lingered for only a heartbeat before she let it fade into the stillness. Some feelings didn't need answers. Sometimes it was enough to know that, somewhere in the sleeping world, one person was thinking of another.