Interlude
The Watcher
Cold settles differently as the sun lowers on the horizon. Sharper. The smell of burning leaves drifts across the neighboring fields, carried on a breeze that rattles bare branches overhead.
Voices rise and fall beyond the fence line. Laughter. Someone arguing over football. A ball cuts through the gray afternoon, followed by groans when it slips through waiting hands.
From the shelter of the trees, the yard stretches wide. People everywhere. Moving. Talking. Coats pulled tighter against the cold. Steam curls from mugs held in gloved hands.
The truck waits near the end of the drive. Unmoving. The watcher moves farther behind the trunk of an old oak.
Far enough to stay hidden. Close enough to watch. The crowd begins to thin. Goodbyes linger. Hugs. Hands lifted in farewell.
The front door opens again. The woman steps onto the porch. The man follows a moment later. No words. No reaching for each other.
They don’t have to. The space between them says enough. His attention sweeps the yard once. Habit. Not enough. Never enough.
They head toward the truck. She climbs in first. He circles the hood, one last glance toward the house before disappearing inside.
The engine starts. Headlights sweep across the trees. Across the fence. Across empty ground. Then they’re gone.
Silence settles over the property. More vehicles leave. More voices disappear. The football is forgotten in the grass. The smell of smoke lingers.
The watcher remains. Patient. Watching until the last porch light clicks off. Knowing there will be another chance. There always is.