The: Loft

He set down the cardboard box of his father’s things and walked to the center of the room. The floorboards groaned under his weight, a low, pained sound, like an old man waking from a nap he’d never meant to take.

She knelt in front of him. The birds settled on her shoulders. “She left me unfinished. That means I’m not fully here—but I’m not fully there, either. I’ve been waiting in the space between for seventeen years. And now you’re selling the house.”

Not much. Just a flutter of the birds that were once a dress. A ripple in the amber sea. The faceless woman tilted her head, as if listening.

“I’m not a painter,” Elias said.