She sits in the dark, her fingers twirling. The yarn squeezes itself into strange patterns, but she knows it by feel. She listens to herself breathing, in and then out again, and it calms her. There is a subtle hum of a fan, and the sounds of the crickets outside. She smiles to herself, but her eyes start closing.
She leans over the side of the bed and gently places her work-in-progress on a stack of books she’s always in the middle of. As she settles in, she feels the familiar whispers around her. Her eyes flash open and she listens to the flapping wings for a moment before she whispers, “Jack? Are you there?”
The wings return her whisper, “it is me.”
Her eyes close and her smile widens. She wells up with excitement. “Tell me, my darling, what brings you back to me?”
“I’ve longed to see your face, hear your voice.” She hears.
“How have you been spending your time, my love?” She asks the darkness.
“Waiting for you, sweetness, waiting for you.”
“How much longer?”
“Not long enough, my darling.”
“Every time you tell me that, my love, but I am still here. Still waiting.”
“And I am waiting for you.”
The tears stream down her cheeks, as they always do. She hears the beat of the wings, and the whispered promise: “Always. I will wait for you always.”
Then the silence grows heavy again. The fan whirs. The crickets grow louder. And her eyes slowly narrow as her tears dry on her cheeks.