The Space Between Breaths

The breeze finds him first—cool across his forearm, carrying thyme through the open window.

He opens his eyes.

Morning light. The mug on the counter is still warm.

He crosses the room, wraps both hands around it. Still too warm—like her hand once was, now distant, warmth recalling its source. He sips. Chamomile and honey. Perfect—two spoonfuls, just as she always made it.

He sets the cup down carefully, almost reverently, as if it might spill something more than tea. “Thank you,” he says.

The curtain lifts and falls once, as if answering.

He checks the kitchen like a pulse: milk, bread, a pan on the stove—everything too deliberate, as if someone’s still keeping house. A hum drifts through the hallway—soft, human, low. By the time he turns, it’s gone.

The silence thickens until it’s almost a sound of its own.

He moves through the bedroom. The bed is half-made—his side rumpled, the other smooth. Her book lies open on the nightstand, a folded corner holding its place. He doesn’t remember leaving it that way.

He splashes his face. The mirror fogs though no hot water runs. His reflection lags half a heartbeat, then catches up. He stares, waiting for it to move again.

Back in the kitchen, the mug waits—still warm. He frowns, lifts it. Steam rises like breath. He drinks, gazing out the window. The tomato vines droop, waiting to be staked. He can’t recall if he’s done it yet.

He should write it down.

By the phone, a notepad waits. His handwriting runs together in looping insistence—

TuesdayTuesdayThursday?Tuesday.

He flips to the next page. Same ink, same words.

“What day is it?” he calls out.

The house holds its breath. Then—soft footsteps, quick, somewhere above or down the hall. His pulse kicks against his ribs, that involuntary leap of hope or warning—he can’t tell which.

“I’m losing track,” he says, louder. “I can’t tell if—”

A door closes. Gentle. Final.

He lowers his hand from the railing and turns back to the sink. The tea is cooler but not cold. He rinses the cup; the water steams faintly when it hits the porcelain.

Someone made this tea. Recently. While it was still hot.

The clock reads 9:47.

He could swear it read that yesterday too. Maybe the clock stopped. Maybe it never started again.

The scent of thyme sharpens. He follows it to the stove. A pan sits on the burner, a thin layer of oil catching light. He touches the handle.

Warm.

“Were you cooking?” he asks.

The air changes. Not a breeze—something denser, a pressure that gathers just behind him.

He turns. The doorway is empty. But the chair by the table is pulled out now. He’s almost certain he pushed it in.

He sets a hand on the chair back. The wood holds warmth.

“I know you’re here,” he says quietly.

A whisper back, almost beneath hearing: “I never left.”

Or maybe the curtain just moved.

He looks toward the stairs. Something shifts above—a drawer, a latch, or breath itself. He grips the railing but doesn’t climb. Going up to find her—or not—both feel impossible.

The house waits. So does he.

When he returns to the kitchen, the mug sits clean in the dish rack, beaded with water. He’s sure he put it there.

On the counter, another mug waits. Full. Steaming.

He stares. Lifts it. Heat seeps into his palms again, deeper this time.

Chamomile and honey. Perfect.

He drinks.

Outside, the garden holds still: no birdcall, no wind, only color drained flat against the glass.

Inside, something exhales beside him. Not air—warmth.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in thyme.

“I don’t remember,” he whispers. “I don’t remember if you were here this morning or if that was yesterday.”

The warmth stays. It settles against his shoulder blade, the exact place her hand used to rest when she read over his shoulder.

He opens his eyes. Everything looks unchanged—the light, the mug, the curtain—but a single thing feels different:

The air knows his name.

He doesn’t ask who made the tea.

He just drinks.

***

He wakes to the same light—thin, neither morning nor afternoon.

The mug waits on the counter. Still warm.

He drinks without hesitation. The tea is always right—chamomile, honey, that faint floral he never identified. He tastes for difference; finds none—consistency its own warning.

The notepad lies open. Fresh words in his own hand:

TuesdayTuesdayThursday?Tuesday

and beneath, a new line he doesn’t remember writing—

Does it matter.

The period is heavy, pressed deep, as if someone needed the thought to stay put.

The clock reads 9:47.

It hums faintly—a sound clocks aren’t meant to make.

He glances at the window. The tomatoes are still green, frozen in one shade, like photos. He stares until his eyes sting, waiting for a leaf to move. None does.

He steps into the garden. The air is cool and scentless, like breathing through glass. The soil feels dry but leaves no dust. He presses harder, hoping for the dark crumble of earth. Nothing breaks.

“You used to love this smell,” he whispers, but the air gives nothing back.

Inside again, warmth wraps his shoulders like fog. Thyme thickens in the hallway, sweet and intrusive.

He follows it to the stove. A pan waits, a thin shimmer of oil skating its surface. He touches the handle.

Warm.

“You’re cooking,” he says—half plea, half prayer.

The room shifts. A weight passes close—the sensation of someone brushing by without sound. Fine hairs rise along his arms; skin prickles, aware of being seen.

On the table: a book he doesn’t remember moving.

Open, facedown, pages bruised.

He turns it over.

Underlined in pencil:

Even the body’s stillness tells a story—not laziness, but a torn self resting.

He traces the graphite. It smears faintly onto his fingertip—fresh. His pulse jumps once, startled by evidence of another hand.

“Did you mark this?” he asks the air.

The answer comes as vibration rather than sound—a hum, faint and high, from somewhere above.

He feels it first in his throat before he hears it, as though the house has found a frequency inside him.

He climbs the stairs, one hand trailing the wall. The plaster is strangely warm. Each step creaks, its echo following a beat later.

At the top, the hallway narrows, light thinning to dust.

The spare-room door stands open.

The humming stops.

He enters. The room smells of chalk and stale air. Light falls across the floor, dust floating in it. The windowpane is fogged, as if the glass is breathing.

On the glass: a drawing.

A box. Inside it, a small bird.

He stares. The image looks freshly drawn—moisture beaded at the lines’ edges. He reaches out; cold radiates before he touches it.

He wipes the picture away with his sleeve.

For a second, the pane clears.

Then—

a print appears where the bird had been: a small hand, fingers splayed, as if pressed from the other side.

He steps back, breath catching halfway in his chest. The silence tilts, waiting for him to make the next sound.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Only the faint tick of the clock downstairs, though he knows that clock doesn’t tick.

He closes the door. The latch clicks too loudly, final as punctuation.

Downstairs again, the air eases—softer, familiar. The hum recedes, but its echo stays inside his ribs.

The mug is on the counter.

Full. Steaming.

He doesn’t remember pouring it.

He lifts it anyway and drinks. Heat spreads outward, deliberate, tracing his sternum like a pulse learning to steady itself.

“I don’t know what day it is,” he says softly, not sure who he’s telling. “I don’t know if you’re here or if I’m—”

He stops. The hallway mirror catches motion—his reflection, a half-second ahead this time.

He watches it blink before he does.

He looks away.

The curtain stirs though no air moves. The walls give a low hum, sympathetic, like breath withheld.

He closes his eyes.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Please stay.”

Silence folds around him—thick, patient, listening.

When he opens his eyes, the chair by the table is pulled out again, angled slightly toward him.

He doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t need to.

The mug is warm in his hands.

He drinks.

Outside, the garden is a painting.

Inside, something still breathes.

He chooses inside.

***

Evening gathers without announcement.

Light folds into amber, into the slow bruise of dusk. He doesn’t remember the transition—only that it’s darker now.

The mug waits on the counter. He drinks without thinking. It’s habit now—ritual more than thirst.

The chair across from him is pulled out. He no longer bothers to push it in.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says. His voice startles him—too solid, too alive against the still air. “The days don’t move. I go outside and nothing smells right. But in here—”

He stops. The curtain stirs though the window is shut tight.

The air thickens.

Then—another breath.

Not his.

Soft. Measured. It threads through his own until he can’t tell where his ends.

He freezes. The mug trembles, rippling its reflection.

“Are you here?”

The breathing halts, then resumes—closer.

He feels it before he hears it—the shift of air against his forearm, a warmth like someone leaning near.

Then a voice.

Her voice.

Low, familiar, close enough to make his throat ache.

“Have you eaten?”

He shuts his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“You should eat,” she says. “You should rest.”

He nods—small, automatic. His body answers before his mind can.

When he opens his eyes, the chair is empty.

But the warmth remains—pressing lightly along his ribs and arm, tracing his breath.

“Don’t go,” he says.

The warmth stays.

He exhales, slow. The air moves through him like release, but what leaves isn’t relief—only quiet surrender.

“I don’t know if I’m dreaming you,” he whispers. “Or if this is what’s left.”

Silence answers—kind, unbearable.

Then—the humming again.

The same faint tune from upstairs.

A child’s tune.

He stands, heart jolting, as though memory itself has made a sound.

The warmth follows as he climbs. It’s hard to tell if it’s guiding or warning.

The stairs groan, each step echoing twice—his foot, then the memory of his foot.

At the top, the door to the spare room is open.

Inside, dusk hangs like breath held too long.

The window reflects him—and beside his reflection, another figure.

Small. Still. Humming softly.

He steps closer. “Hello?”

The child looks up.

The face flickers—familiar, then blurred.

Her eyes—or his, years ago. He can’t tell.

“What are you drawing?”

Tiny fingers move across the dusty floor, tracing shapes.

A box. A small figure inside. The figure shifts, begins to stand, arm outstretched.

He kneels. “Is that me?”

The child keeps drawing.

The chalk scrapes once, then stops, but the motion continues—finger tracing invisible lines.

He reaches out.

His hand meets only air, colder than before.

When he blinks, the child is gone.

The room holds only his reflection again, faint and delayed.

He backs away, pulse in his throat. “There’s someone up here,” he says—to the house, to her, to himself.

No reply.

Downstairs, the scent of thyme returns, sharp and grounding. He follows it to the kitchen.

The mug waits. Full. Steaming.

He drinks without hesitation. The warmth floods his chest, steadying him.

He sits; the chair across from him feels occupied again—air weighted with another breath syncing with his.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just breathes.

Outside, the world remains perfectly still.

Inside, the house hums softly, like something alive and listening.

He stays.

***

He wakes in the chair at the table.

Or doesn’t wake—just surfaces.

The light seeping through the window refuses to choose a time. It shifts too quickly—dawn, dusk, something between.

The mug waits in front of him. Still warm. Always warm.

He lifts it but doesn’t drink.

Heat sinks into his palms, past the skin, his heartbeat faltering to match. Under his ribs, something moves—steady, rhythmic, not quite his.

He breathes in. The air thickens, trembles, then steadies around him.

“Something’s changing,” he says.

His voice sounds closer than it should, as if spoken inside his chest.

The curtain swells, breathes out. The air smells faintly of thyme and burnt sugar.

And then—she’s by the window.

No sound of arrival, no shadow crossing the floor. Just form, shimmering slightly, as though made of exhale and light.

“Yes,” she says.

He rises slowly. The floor feels uncertain beneath his feet—hollow one moment, too solid the next.

“I can feel it,” he says. “In my chest. It won’t stop.”

Her voice folds through the air, gentle but precise.

“You wanted it to stop once.”

He looks down at his hands.

White marks streak his palms—chalk, veins, or cracks. He rubs them, but they don’t fade.

“I didn’t draw this,” he says.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t you? You’ve been drawing it for years.”

The walls breathe with him now—each inhale drawing the house closer, each exhale letting it slip away. His chest, the air, the walls: all falling into the same rhythm.

“Was I here?” she asks.

“You’re here right now,” he says, throat tightening around the truth.

“Am I?” she whispers.

Her shape begins to loosen, threads of light drifting free.

He steps forward, but his hand passes through her like through smoke that hums faintly, almost kind.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says.

“I never left.”

The air brightens for a moment—then dims.

The warmth in his chest remains, steady now, pulsing low and constant.

From upstairs, a soft humming starts again. The child’s tune. Slow, certain.

He climbs. The hallway stretches—walls leaning inward as if to listen.

At the end, the door stands open.

The room is brighter this time.

The child sits by the window, drawing in the dust.

A box. A figure inside.

The figure stands up.

He can’t tell if the child is drawing him or if the drawing is drawing itself.

“Hello,” he says.

The child looks up. The face flickers—his own eyes, but clearer.

The humming stops. The room holds its breath.

He kneels. His knees don’t quite meet the floor.

“Who are you?”

The child tilts its head. “You know.”

Then the figure fades, leaving only the outline on the glass.

His mirrored self stands on the other side—waiting, hand pressed against the pane.

He steps closer, palm to palm with his reflection.

The glass feels warm, not cold.

Downstairs, the clock ticks once.

Then again.

He looks back. The reflection blinks first this time.

When he turns, the room is empty—but the warmth remains, humming steady in his chest.

He descends. Each stair creaks twice—his weight, and then an echo that doesn’t belong to him.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, the light has changed again.

Amber. Then blue. Then both.

The mug waits on the counter. Full. Still steaming.

He lifts it, hands trembling only slightly.

The tea tastes of chamomile, honey—and something new.

Something alive.

He exhales, and the air exhales with him.

The house feels lighter.

Not empty.

Just—breathing.

***

Morning.

Or what passes for it.

He wakes in bed, though he doesn’t remember lying down. The sheets smell of thyme. Light pours through the window—bright, almost painful. Colors seem overexposed: the green of tomato leaves, the blue beyond what the sky should hold.

He sits up. Listens.

The house hums quietly, steady as breath.

He lets it fill the silence between his own.

When he stands, his body feels lighter—not rested, but unanchored. The rhythm inside him is still there, pulsing beneath the ribs, warm and unhurried.

He walks to the kitchen.

The mug waits.

Still warm.

He smiles without knowing why. Lifts it. Drinks.

Chamomile, honey, and something else he can’t name—something like memory left out overnight.

He sets the mug down gently. It leaves a ring of light on the counter.

The back door is closed.

He moves toward it.

For a long moment, his hand rests on the knob. The metal is cool—so unlike the warmth that fills the house. He could turn it. Step outside.

He imagines the air there: sharp, alive, full of things that move on their own. He can almost hear them.

He turns the knob. The hinges sigh.

Air rushes in—fresh and wild. It smells of grass, earth, and something just starting to bloom. The scent fills his lungs too quickly. It hurts, strangely new.

He takes one step out. Bare feet on the threshold. Light spilling over his face.

He exhales.

Wind moves through the garden—gentle, indifferent, endless.

He takes another step—

and stops.

The mug is still in his hand.

Still warm.

Steam curls upward, slow and constant, like breath that refuses to fade.

He looks down into the cup. The surface trembles, catching the light. For a moment, the reflection steadies—

the kitchen staring back: window, chair, curtain shifting gently.

He blinks.

Light falters—morning to dusk, dusk to morning—too fast, too soft to name.

He steps backward.

Back into the house.

The air closes around him—familiar, patient, whole.

The scent of thyme deepens. The hum steadies.

He sets the mug down. Warmth pulses quietly against his skin.

The clock above the doorway reads 9:47.

It always does.

He looks toward the window. The curtain moves. Behind it—

a shape. Still, waiting.

He can’t tell if it’s her.

Or the child.

Or something that was never separate to begin with.

He takes a breath. The house breathes with him.

The warmth gathers in his chest again—not memory, not comfort—just presence.

He whispers, “Okay.”

The word drifts upward, caught in the golden air.

He doesn’t open the door again.

He doesn’t need to.

The house hums.

The curtain shifts.

Light and shadow fold together until they’re indistinguishable.

Barefoot in the kitchen, he holds the echo of her warmth. Not waiting. Not leaving. Just being.

The mug will be on the counter when he wakes.

Still warm.

The air knows his name now.

It always has.