The Coast Continues Without Me

The salt air on the road is colder than it should be, pressing against the skin of my neck. I walk towards the curve where the asphalt dips into the bay. Tucked under the curb, wedged between two pieces of washed-up driftwood, is a cream-colored envelope. My name is written across the front, the ink making a familiar drag against the paper. I open it. The page inside is blank, save for a single, precise date circled in the corner. I turn back to the house I just left. The front door is open, revealing the drawing room. The chair in the center remains perfectly upright, casting a shadow that moves across the hardwood floor even though there is no wind. I stand in the threshold and wait for the shadow to stretch toward me, but it only adjusts, remaining anchored to the space where I was not.