I had been away at the seaside for ten days, and the house felt different the moment I stepped back inside. Not in any obvious way—nothing was out of place, nothing was broken—but there’s a particular silence a home takes on when it has been left alone for long enough. Dust settles differently. Light feels slightly unfamiliar. Even the air seems to hesitate.
I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and moved through the rooms on autopilot, opening windows, letting the stale air shift and change. It wasn’t until I reached the bathroom that I stopped.
Something was hanging out of the overflow drain in the bathtub.
At first glance, my mind refused to categorize it. It didn’t look like something man-made. It didn’t look like something that belonged inside a house at all. It drooped downward in a way that made it seem almost alive, as if it had grown there in my absence and was now slowly spilling out, testing the open air.
For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I just stared at it. Continue reading …