Unopened letter

The sky was always a brilliant blue. A letter—just sitting there, unopened, on the kitchen countertop. Armino’s collar jingled as he sniffed around the half-heartedly packed cartons, searching for any hint of his absent owners, but the house was quiet. The drooping ferns and wilted Calathea plants—she had forgotten they ever existed. His muddy shoes, caked with the grime of untrodden paths, rested by the door, with several illegally purchased 5-milligram Percocet pills crushed beneath them. The wind chimes hung motionless today. A shattered vase lay neglected on the floor. Their laughter had once inundated this cozy, dimly lit space. The faded sepia-toned Polaroid of their first vacation together was now crumpled and discarded in the trash.

The silver SUV, parked outside, was still warm. He had said he’d be back by noon. The vintage TV, a pre-wedding gift from her capricious husband, flickered with some old soap opera—a gift that lasted longer than their marriage but was just as defective. The family photo album was gone. Her favorite armchair was smothered by dense clouds of dust.

He never returned after abruptly leaving that Monday evening. The unopened letter on the countertop was his last remnant. Every day, every passing minute, she waited with gut-wrenching, infallible hope. The letter—just a goodbye, hidden in a plain envelope. The cobblestone house, now empty, still held his musky scent that clung to the walls.

The rain had stopped, but the ground was still soaking wet. The clock ticked, growing louder and more insistent with each knell. A siren, somewhere distant and dampened by city traffic, left behind nothing but an all-consuming silence that hung low in the air.

On the verandah, the outdoor plants were overwatered by her tears. They had spent most of their time here, woven in each other’s embrace like a utopian jigsaw puzzle. The soiled leather shoes were his last mark. The shattered glass vase was their last argument. Laughter had become an infrequent guest.

Years later, she would finally open the letter, its envelope yellowed and curled at the edges, and the words carefully wrapped inside would break her heart all over again. It spoke of a love that was as fragile as the shattered China vase she bought with promises of a "lifetime guarantee." It presumably explained why he never returned—or beautifully failed to do so. After her third miscarriage, why would he even wait? She felt hopeless and heavy, unable to walk even if she tried to drag her feet. And the sky—it was still a relentless blue. Unchanged, indifferent.