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Then, you stop weeping. Lift your face from your hands. Not because you’re done or because it helped, but because there’s a faint knock at the window. You look up. It’s a branch. It taps & waves & distracts your sorrow. You wipe your face hard with both hands. This is not a sign. You’re ruefully aware of that, & don’t believe in signs. They announced a storm, it nears, that’s all. Yet the sky is so still — so lit. Again, those knocks at the window. It’s not him. Of course it’s not him.
‘Then, you stop’ from These Many Rooms (c) 2019 by Laure-Anne Bosselaar. Appears with permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.