After
When he died, the house did not react. The walls stayed where they were. The light came through the same window at the same hour. Only the people moved differently, as if the floor had shifted slightly and no one wanted to admit it.
They gathered to sort his things. Not all at once — slowly, carefully — as if touching too much would make it final. Someone folded his clothes even though no one would wear them. Someone else washed a mug before putting it back in the cupboard, clean but unused.
They spoke about practical matters. Paperwork. Dates. What to keep. What to throw away. No one spoke about him directly. It felt impolite, like mentioning someone who had stepped out of the room and might return.
At night, the house made the same sounds it always had. Pipes. Wood. Wind. It did not explain itself. It did not offer comfort.
Eventually, someone said, “It’s quiet now.”
No one corrected them.
They gathered to sort his things. Not all at once — slowly, carefully — as if touching too much would make it final. Someone folded his clothes even though no one would wear them. Someone else washed a mug before putting it back in the cupboard, clean but unused.
They spoke about practical matters. Paperwork. Dates. What to keep. What to throw away. No one spoke about him directly. It felt impolite, like mentioning someone who had stepped out of the room and might return.
At night, the house made the same sounds it always had. Pipes. Wood. Wind. It did not explain itself. It did not offer comfort.
Eventually, someone said, “It’s quiet now.”
No one corrected them.
Loss does not announce itself. It settles in and waits for you to notice.