Ruth's smile caught for a second, then steadied, as though she'd had to remember how.
"Morning, Amara. Out early?"
"Had a few errands," Amara said, stopping at the edge of the walk while Milo gave Ruth's leaning mailbox a dutiful sniff. "The air's too good to waste inside. Smells like the storm scrubbed everything clean."
Ruth tucked a stack of envelopes beneath her arm. "It did. You can almost hear the earth drinking." Her gaze slid to the dripping oak branches, then back, as though she were measuring something Amara couldn't see.
A drop fell from the awning and struck Milo's head. He sneezed at the wet post and shook himself, collar chiming.
"Sorry," Amara said. "He thinks every scent is a headline."
"They know more than we do, dogs," Ruth said lightly, her voice just a little too careful. "They catch what we miss."
For a moment they both watched a pair of sparrows dart across the road, wings throwing off tiny sparks of water. Their quick flight left a hush behind it, a silence that lingered a beat too long.
"How are your roses holding up?" Amara asked, nodding toward the Ellery yard where the bushes still shone with rain. The petals glowed against the dull sky, a wet velvet red.
"Hardier than I am," Ruth answered with a soft laugh. "They like a good storm, makes them stronger. I swear they grow an inch overnight." She plucked at the corner of an envelope, eyes flicking back toward the street as though some sound had brushed her hearing.
"They look it," Amara said. "Mine just sulk if it rains too much. Maybe I should ask your secret."
"Patience," Ruth said. "And a little coffee grounds. They like bitterness." Her mouth curved, but her attention had drifted again.
Amara followed her glance, half expecting to see someone approaching. Only the wet road shimmered there, empty except for a windblown paper cup rolling lazily along the gutter.
A neighbor's screen door creaked open and shut. Somewhere behind the houses a lawnmower coughed awake, then died, the sound oddly muffled as though wrapped in cotton.
"Storm kept you up?" Amara ventured.
"Some," Ruth said. "The thunder rattles the old windows. But then " She broke off, tilting her head as if she'd heard something beneath the wind's low hiss. "Then it was quiet. Too quiet. You notice that?"
Amara felt a faint pressure gather behind her ribs. "I guess the air gets heavy afterward. Makes everything sound closer."
Ruth nodded absently. "Closer, yes."
To lighten the mood, Amara said, "I was just thinking I haven't seen your husband around lately. Is he hiding from the weather?"
That finally drew Ruth's eyes back, sharp and startled. The soundscape, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the far-off dryer vent seemed to dim.
"My.....oh, he's fine," she said after a pause. "We… we don't see much of him these days."
"Don't see much of him?" Amara kept her tone airy, though a cool weight settled across her shoulders.
"He's...." Ruth hesitated, her gaze darting past Amara's shoulder, tracking some invisible movement down the lane. A breeze carried the metallic scent of wet iron. The leaves above them whispered like an eavesdropping crowd. "He's always been good at disappearing."
The words landed heavy, dull as a stone dropped in water.
Amara forced a small laugh. "Sounds like Elijah when he's on call. I sometimes forget what day it is before he comes home."
"Yes," Ruth said quickly, the brightness of her voice almost brittle. "Just like that."
Milo gave a low whine and shifted closer to Amara's leg, the leash trembling faintly. The street, alive only moments ago with small, ordinary noises, felt suddenly padded and strange, as if the morning itself were holding its breath.
Ruth looked past her again, to the bend in the road where the trees knit their dripping branches together. Her eyes followed something Amara couldn't see, pupils narrowing as though against a bright light.
Amara's gaze snagged on the empty corner lot. "That old Wilcox place… have you heard about it?"
Ruth paused, tilting her head the way she did during patient intake. "Wilcox?" Her tone stayed light but her eyes sharpened, assessing. "I'm not sure I know that house. Can you tell me where you mean?"
"Over there," Amara said, gesturing vaguely. "The side door keeps opening at night."
Ruth gave a small, even nod, the kind that neither agrees nor disagrees. "That sounds unsettling. Sometimes when we're tired, places can feel different, like they have their own stories. How long have you noticed that?"
The measured question settled between them, warm and steady, offering Amara a chance to elaborate or to let it drift away.
Amara felt the weight of Ruth's question, the quiet steadiness in her tone, and for a moment, the street seemed to press closer around them. She glanced down at Milo, who was sniffing along the edge of the curb, entirely absorbed in his small, urgent world.
Instead of answering, she offered Ruth a small, polite smile, the kind that acknowledges interest without inviting further probing. "I suppose it's nothing," she said lightly, her voice almost carried away by the damp air. She gave the leash a gentle tug, letting Milo move a few steps ahead.
Ruth tilted her head, studying Amara for a heartbeat longer, but made no further comment. She let the moment settle, respectful, as if she understood without needing to press.
Amara felt a faint relief in that silence, a quiet permission to let the imagined details remain her own. She shifted her gaze to the wet street, the glimmering leaves, and the pattern of puddles that reflected the gray sky. For a moment, the corner lot was just a lot—empty, silent, unremarkable.
"Better get moving," Amara said finally, her tone brisk, almost cheerful. "The basil won't pick itself, after all." She lifted her hand in a small wave.
"Lovely to see you," Ruth replied, the words a beat delayed, soft but steady. "Give Milo a scratch from me."
"I will." Amara tugged the leash again, and Milo trotted forward, happy to leave the corner behind. She lingered only an extra heartbeat to meet Ruth's eyes with that same faint smile, an acknowledgment of connection without words. Then she turned, stepping onto the wet sidewalk, letting the morning carry her forward.
After a dozen steps, she glanced back. Ruth remained by the mailbox, letters clutched to her chest, watching the street stretch away. Amara's mind filled in stories the world didn't confirm, but she didn't need Ruth to see them. That space belonged only to her.