The House Continues Above Me

The upstairs floorboards smell of dust and old lemon polish. A small dog sits by the railing, its brown fur heavy. Its eyes do not blink. I touch the green enamel cup resting on the sill; its weight is unfamiliar, yet I cup my hands around it, needing the cold ceramic. The room smells of salt and drying paint. I walk through the open doorway, but the space beyond does not wait for me. The light source shifts, maintaining its even yellow wash, though I am not there. The air temperature drops immediately behind my heel, a precise thermal void. The dog continues its stillness, keeping its gaze fixed on the cup, the silence filling the empty space where my shadow fell.