𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒. ᵒᵘᵗᵉʳ ᵇᵃⁿᵏˢ ¹

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄.

   

    𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. Golden waves from the sea rushed up on its docks out front, pushing on the white boat and streaking lines on the wooden posts. There was a house on the cut, where the curtains swayed dancing in the open windows. There was a house on the cut, where the paint chipped on it's exterior walls and the window sills cracked to close. Where the wood was lined with shimmering flower pots. There was a house on the cut, in the middle crest of Kingsley street that had a red bicycle leaning against its porch screen.

The house on the cut had not seen a prospect of movement for two weeks. Fourteen days spiraled into a long time of nothingness. The only thing that had moved in rarity, often at the same intervals, was the tattered screen door and the Toyota pickup truck for when the stillness became overbearingly suffocating. It was always the same pair of shoes that creaked the porch floorboards, always the same loafers or New Balance sneakers, never the ever-wanting white stained shoes— that hadn't seen the light of day in a long time.

The white sneakers remained at the side of the screen door for two weeks. Sitting there on the carpet beside the round table. Everything around them remained the same— the newspapers were still scattered in one place on the table, the handmade vases and pots were still on the antique cabinet, the paintings of the landscapes still attached to the walls. It was the same house that welcomed a city girl at one point in time, hugged her, and embraced her in a way she'd never felt before. The only thing that varied in the stillness of time was the coffee cups and dishes in the sink, and the occasional enlightenment of a light bulb. They kept the lights off most of the time.

It had been a full fourteen days since the shutters of the yellow-walled bedroom had last been opened. It'd been fourteen full days since the dirt-stained white sneakers took their final spot at the screen door. It had been a full fourteen days since the usual chair by the window held its usual person. It had been a full fourteen days since the red bicycle moved last— it rested there on the post every day and every night. It had been a full fourteen days since the night John Booker Routledge got lost at sea.

Precisely on the fourteenth day, it was a particularly bright Saturday morning. It was present time when Caroline Collins had her chin resting in the crevice of her palm, with an elbow perched on top of the stack of newspapers. She was staring outside at the water, as the waves crashed in on the sides of the white boat— the boat, another thing that hadn't moved in a fortnight.