The Hollow

She sits by the window, tongue tracing the hollow where her tooth once anchored her to the world. Shadows lengthen, pooling along the wavering quilt—her fingers drift, searching the soft gap as if it might yield seeds or memories. The house breathes around her, floorboards sighing beneath accumulated silence. Seventy-eight winters, and she still waits for his key in the lock. Sometimes she hears it. She listens, uncertain whether the whispers belong to the walls or her own mouth, speaking through absence. The ache hums—remember, forget, remember—petal by petal, falling.