Dark houses stand like sentinels along the street; stoic and unmoving. Lights flicker occasionally through the windows like eyes trained on me, watching me. The loose ground crunches under the soles of my shoes; the sound out of place in the quiet and stillness of night. Being the end of April, it isn’t cold enough that I need a winter jacket, but it isn’t warm enough to not wear any kind of jacket either; like I am. Leaves rustle from the force of the wind, causing tree limbs to sway in the gray and black sky. The air smells like rain and earth; moist and sickly sweet. I stop, looking up at the red two-story house with white trim, swallowing around a lump in my throat. My eyes go to the second-floor window on the right. She is in there, asleep in her bed, dreaming. I wonder if she ever dreams of me. It’s unlikely. Maybe I don’t have her dreams, but she has mine, and I have this moment, right now. I walk across the yard, the damp grass bending under the weight of my shoes.
