By Michael Clark • February 28, 2026 • Share
When I got home, the house was silent.
No music. No humming from the kitchen. Just the faint tick of the clock and the soft buzz of the refrigerator.
The cake sat on the counter, unfinished, with dark frosting smeared across the bowl like someone had stopped mid-breath. The knife leaned against the edge of the tub, and a balloon bobbed near the ceiling, its string tangled around a cabinet handle.
When I got home, the house was silent.
“Jess?” I called, louder than I meant to.
Nothing.
Our bedroom door was open. I walked in and stopped; Jess’s side of the closet was bare. The hangers, the floral ones she insisted on, swayed slightly as if recently disturbed. Her suitcase was gone, and so were most of her shoes.
Jess’s side of the closet was bare.
I barely kept myself upright as I limped down the hallway. Evie was asleep in her crib, her mouth open, with one hand resting on the duck’s head.
