short fiction · 2026-10-18

The Weight of Waiting

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

She sat at the kitchen table, fingers tracing the grain of the wood where his cup had rested each morning. The chair opposite remained upright, its back slightly bowed as if still holding the shape of his shoulders. Outside, the mailbox hung open, its interior a hollow echo that swallowed the wind's whisper. No footsteps approached the path; only the slow creep of shadow across the floor marked the passage of hours. She poured tea into two cups, steam curling upward, then vanished before it could reach the rim.