The door creaked open, a sound that seemed louder than any other noise in the empty house. My sister, Emma, stepped in without knocking, her presence abrupt and unsettling.
She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway.
“You busy?” she asked, her voice cutting through the stillness.
I looked up from the book I wasn’t really reading, my mind still tangled in thoughts I couldn’t quite sort out. Her question felt like an intrusion, even if it was the most mundane of inquiries.
“Not really,” I replied, setting the book aside.
Emma’s eyes scanned the room, an unspoken question lingering between us. I could feel the weight of her gaze, as if she was searching for something in the silence.
The air felt heavy, as though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of us to speak. But words were elusive, slippery things that seemed to evade my grasp.
Emma shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the soft scuff of her shoes the only sound breaking the quiet.
“I was just thinking,” she began, her voice softer now, “that maybe we should talk.”
Her words hung in the air, a fragile thread connecting us across the small distance. I nodded, unsure of what to say, the enormity of the moment pressing down on me.
