grand detour

it came at 4:17 a.m. the kind that leaves the grass brittle and the air sharp enough to cut through a wool sweater. the streetlights flickered and died one by one, like old bulbs in a slow-motion collapse. i stood on the front porch, barefoot, and watched the sky change from a deep blue to a color i had never seen before—like the inside of a shell that's been left in the sun too long.

the neighbor’s dog barked twice, then stopped. the sound echoed in the silence, as if the world had paused to listen. i reached for the coffee cup on the windowsill, but my hand went through the glass. the cup was still there, untouched, the steam curling up into the cold.

i left the door open. the wind came in, carrying the scent of pine and something else—something that wasn’t quite there, like a memory that had been erased but not forgotten.