The Space Beside Her

The envelope arrived without a return address, with Perry's name in pale serif letters suggesting authority. She stood in the doorway, puzzled about which aspect of her life was under scrutiny, as she hadn't applied for anything.

Inside, a sheet offered only a date, room number, and rules. It stated she'd been enrolled in a voluntary program with no contact allowed during her stay. Basic supplies would be provided, but personal items were not permitted. The room was available from the fourteenth to the twenty-eighth.

The letter ended with, "We look forward to helping you shape what was never allowed to form," with no signature or department. She placed it on the counter, her hand dropping in the apartment's silence. The radiator was silent for weeks; the neighbor's TV murmured through the wall.

Sunlight striped the fire escape. Her coat hung limply on a chair, regaining shape briefly when she picked it up, as if someone had just worn it.

Brant had mentioned a program during a quiet dinner, saying a university offered something for people mourning the children they never had.

"You're serious?" she asked, half-laughing.

He nodded. "Emotional modeling. Preventative trauma."

After finishing her wine, he'd moved on to other topics. Initially, she dismissed it, but post-divorce, she often woke with her heart racing, her hand opening as if to hold something. Awake, she tapped her wrist for comfort, like soothing a child.

She never wanted children, a fact she told Brant early on. He was undecided, leaving the question unresolved. Over time, he leaned toward wanting kids, while she didn't. Her writing slowed, nights were spent watching documentaries, drifting to sleep with the TV on, and she stopped reading aloud.

One morning, he left a note on the fridge saying he'd return for his books when it didn't feel so final. A week later, he did.

The next month, she joined the program. She didn't mention Brant on the forms, telling herself it was just to clear out an unused part of the house.

At check-in, a woman in gray gave her a canvas bag and pointed down a long hallway. Room 3B was marked on a brass plate above the door, slightly askew.

The air smelled of varnish and glue.

Nearby, two women sat on the floor. One rocked gently with a wrapped bundle, the other traced spirals on the tile. Neither looked up.

Room 3B had pale green walls. A twin bed was in the corner, and a smaller bed with a tight blanket and unwrinkled pillow sat beneath the window. A shelf held wooden animals, a stack of cream-colored paper labeled Imaginative Materials, and a well-used pencil.

She dropped her bag on the floor and sat on the larger bed, the mattress sinking slightly. Picking up the manual from the desk, she read about the Imaginary Dependent Project, which instructed her not to treat it as a simulation. The dependent would emerge through memory and language, not be fabricated.

After setting the manual aside, she kicked off her shoes, folded her legs beneath her, and leaned back, noticing the ceiling paint peeling and the light fixture flickering before settling. She lay down with her palm up on the blanket.

Upon waking, she found a slip of paper on the desk with one word: Belen. The sound of the name felt familiar as she said it aloud. She wrote Belen in her notebook, once in the center and then smaller in the margin.

Still, she avoided imagining a face.

Her days lacked structure but had a rhythm. Meals arrived unpredictably but were always warm and balanced, so she stopped trying to guess their timing.

Each morning brought a new task. One day, a pouch of salt dough; another, animal stickers with a note, Your child has chosen these.

She followed instructions precisely, without adding or creating. It felt as though the world moved without her input.

At night, she sat by the smaller bed, a book in her lap. Sometimes she read aloud; other times, her voice faltered. Her hand rested on her thigh, arm extended halfway between the beds without her remembering moving it there.

No one called her by name or used the word mother.

On the fourth morning, she woke with a dull ache in her wrist, not quite pain but a heaviness. A faint impression above her joint suggested a small weight had rested there while she slept.

She reopened the manual, which described early signs of presence settling silently in the joints. She walked to the window, noticing a rake by the shed, a blackbird, and freshly trimmed hedges. Pressing her hand to the glass, she heard a soft sound, like a page turning. Recalling the manual's advice to stay quiet, she turned to find it open on the floor. She placed it back on the desk, smoothing the cover, and whispered, “Belen.” The room remained unchanged, but the weight in her wrist was gone. She felt a shared silence, skipped the morning check-in, and no one noticed. At noon, a meal tray arrived. While eating, she saw the blanket on the smaller bed had shifted slightly. She left it as it was.

That afternoon, a new envelope appeared containing a blank card and colored pencils. A subtle message read, your dependent has chosen a name. You may now begin recognizing presence in space.

She touched the clean paper, left it by the manual, and returned to bed.

That night, she read a wordless picture book. A figure climbed a hill followed by a bird, which eventually perched on the figure's shoulder. She pondered the story and closed the book.

Turning off the light, she lay down.

Upon waking, her arm had reached between the beds, remembering the motion of smoothing a blanket or reaching for a child. The air by the window felt warmer, as if someone had been there.

A green crayon was in the manual. She drew a faint stripe on her palm, then put it back and stood.

The day's task arrived in a small, taped box with a card.

Creative Articulation Exercise No. 5

Use your hands. Let the form arrive. Do not correct. Do not define. Do not revise.

Inside was a lump of salt dough, cool and slightly rigid. Avoiding the smaller bed, she sat at the desk and pressed her fingers into the dough, leaving a shallow impression. Resisting the urge to alter it, she left it beside a pencil, leaving the box partially open.

That evening, she noticed the dough had rotated, revealing faint, delicate impressions like fingertips. She didn't move it again, staring at the shelf until her eyes burned from the prolonged stillness.

In the bathroom, she washed her hands twice. The soap's warmth lingered, but not on her skin.

The next morning, a torn slip of paper on the desk read, in wide, uneven handwriting, Do we have to leave?

Her spoon clattered to the floor, spinning once before stopping by her foot.

When she bent to retrieve it, she noticed the smaller bed had been remade. She hadn’t touched it. The blanket was tucked tight, and the pillow had been nudged closer to the wall.

She washed the spoon under hot water and poured her drink. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the cup. The room held still.

That night, she didn't sleep. A new shape lay in the smaller bed, the blanket curved around it, with the air pulsing quietly. She faced the wall, hands beneath her blanket.

In the morning, the manual had moved again, now on the smaller bed, open to a page marked with a red crayon spiral. In the corner, the name Belen was written. She left it open on the desk, folded the same piece of paper into a triangle, then a wing, and finally a pocket, before sliding it into the desk drawer.

The lunch tray arrived on time, and she absentmindedly set out two forks, dropping one near the cabinet. Reaching for it, she sensed an unnameable presence. That night, she spoke into the quiet, “You don’t have to go.” There was no response, but the blanket on the smaller bed shifted slightly. In the morning, a pink envelope appeared, instructing her to return all items before leaving, as her session ended soon. She left the card on the desk and noticed her cardigan hanging on the smaller bed. Sitting quietly, she heard a light scrape and said, “They want you to go.” A voice softly asked, “Are you going too?” She nodded, feeling she must. The room remained unchanged. She packed her belongings, leaving the cardigan, salt dough, and open manual behind.

In the hallway, all the doors remained closed. If others were leaving, they were doing so quietly.

Only one plate arrived at dinner. The second cup was missing. She placed her hand on the desk. The wood felt faintly warm, but it didn’t hold the shape of her touch.

The ache had left her wrist, her elbow moved freely, but her shoulder still bore a quiet weight she couldn’t define.

She didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, the silence felt colder.

She moved through the morning in order. She washed her face. She folded the blanket. She didn’t touch the cardigan. She left the salt dough untouched in its tray. Standing at the edge of the room, she whispered, “Thank you,” and then reached for her bag and walked to the door.

The front office looked exactly as it had when she arrived. The woman behind the desk wore the same slate-blue uniform and kept her face neutral.

“Any questions about your departure?”

“No.”

The woman handed her a square of thick, matte paper. At the top, it read Receipt of Completion.

Below that was a single printed word. Duration.

The space beside it was blank.

The woman gave a brief nod and turned away.

Perry walked through the glass doors to the bus, a light mist lingering over the pavement. She sat in the middle, away from the windows, and didn’t look back.

At home, everything was as she left it. The rug curled, the air clean but unused, and the neighbor's dog barked once. She placed her keys in the ceramic bowl, dropped her bag on the chair, and left the plants untouched.

She didn’t make tea or turn on the lights. Sitting on the kitchen floor, her hand felt the cold wood, unmoved.

Standing up, she opened her notebook. On the last page was one word: Belen. She turned to a blank page and began writing again, detailing the room, the walls, the light in the afternoons, beds, meals, the quiet hallway, materials, manual, tasks, a green crayon, and the small paper she’d hidden.

She included a note with a name, a red spiral, and a picture book without text. She mentioned the cardigan, salt dough, and her aching wrist. She recorded the voice that had spoken once but didn’t explain or offer meaning, just facts.

After finishing, she closed the notebook, placed it on the windowsill where sunlight touched it, and walked to the bedroom. The bed was untouched. She lay down, eyes open until the room grew pale.

Before waking, she felt a weightless, heatless presence behind her knees, like air taking form. She didn’t move.

At eight, she made toast, taking away one slice before eating standing up in silence.

By midday, she cleaned. She vacuumed, wiped the counters, washed the pillowcases, sorted the mail, organized the books by size and subject, then stopped.

At four, she stood in the center of the room, arms hanging loose.

“Are you here?” she asked.

No voice answered.

“I understand if you’re not.”

Outside, the light dimmed across the glass.

That night, she lit a candle, watched the flame lean left, and let it burn until her eyes stung before blowing it out and watching the smoke rise.

The following Monday, she received a thin, white envelope addressed to her. After making tea, she used a butter knife to open it.

The short letter read:

To Ms. Perry Merrill,

We’re updating your household census record. Recent documents show a dependent at your address. If incorrect, contact the Department of Civic Records within ten business days.

Dependent: Belen Merrill

Date of record: March 2

Source: Form 88B, handwritten

Status: Domestic, Full Care

She read it twice. There were no errors. The postmark was from three days prior.

She hadn’t filled out a form.

Moving to the notebook, she found faint indentations on a supposedly blank page, revealing block letters too large and uneven to be hers.

She closed the notebook and went to the kitchen, where two glasses sat: one plain, the other with a cartoon cat and a chipped rim. She didn't recall bringing the latter home.

She opened the cupboard and looked again. Two cups. Nothing more.

The trash showed nothing unusual. No wrappers, crumbs, or scraps to explain anything.

She leaned against the counter. The wood had absorbed the afternoon sun, but her skin didn’t hold the warmth.

At six, she made noodles with butter and a little broth. She served two plates without hesitation. Her hand adjusted automatically when she reached for the second. No seasoning. A smaller bowl.

She set the second plate across from her own.

Midway through the meal, the second fork shifted slightly.

She looked up. The candle flickered once, then stilled.

She whispered, “You came back.”

No one answered.

She washed both plates and dried them with a towel she hadn’t used in weeks.

In the bedroom, the bed remained exactly as she’d left it. She opened the closet and found the cardigan from the child’s bed hanging on the rail. It had been washed. The scent of detergent lingered.

She took it down and laid it gently over the chair near the window.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t write.

The room held still.

That night, she dreamed of a hallway lined with doors. Each one bore a metal plate with a different date, some familiar, some half-remembered. One door opened by itself.

Inside, she saw another version of herself seated at a desk, turned away. She held a pencil in her left hand and carefully printed letters onto a lined page. Perry stepped closer and saw her own name taking shape in a style that matched the faded indentations from the notebook.

When she woke, sunlight stretched in narrow bands across the floor. The apartment smelled faintly of steam and oats.

In the kitchen, a clean bowl waited on the stove. The burner was cold. The oatmeal box was closed. The pot had been rinsed and turned upside down to dry.

She touched the bowl. It held a trace of warmth. She wrapped her fingers around the rim, then let go.

She poured a glass of water and drank without sitting. Her breath stayed steady.

“You’re learning,” she whispered.

That afternoon, she called the number from the letter. A voice recording guided her through options. She waited through several minutes of static-filled music.

When a woman answered, she said, “Department of Civic Records. This is Lennon. How can I help you today?”

Perry gave her name and the case number printed on the notice. She explained that she’d received a notification about a dependent she hadn’t registered.

Lennon asked her to hold. The sound of typing filled the pause.

“The record was submitted by hand. The handwriting was confirmed valid. The document was Form 88B and came from your listed address.”

Perry kept her voice calm. “It wasn’t mine.”

Silence.

“If you believe the entry’s incorrect, you can file an appeal. A field agent would come to confirm the absence of a dependent.”

“What would that involve?”

“They’d inspect your space. Any relevant materials would be reviewed.”

Perry looked toward the second cup beside the sink.

“Would you like the paperwork mailed to you?”

“No.”

“Understood. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No.”

“Thank you for calling. Have a safe evening.”

The line disconnected.

She set the phone back in its cradle and looked toward the bookshelf. A thin band of light touched the edge of the notebook.

She walked across the room and opened it again. She didn’t write. She simply rested her hand on the paper, then closed the cover and left it where it was.

Behind her, something moved. A crayon rolled across the floor and stopped against her foot.

It was red. The label had worn away. The tip had gone blunt.

She bent down, picked it up, and placed it in the desk drawer.

That night, she read the picture book again, turning the pages one by one.

When she reached the end, she paused.

The bird had landed. The figure leaned toward it. A faint trail of color curved from the hill’s base to the summit. She hadn’t noticed it before.

She held the book open as the room darkened.

A shape settled beside her. It didn’t speak, but it leaned softly into her side.

She didn’t move.