Each morning the stairwell landing
widens a little, then sways.
Not enough to alarm,
just enough that I steady myself
on the rail I've held for years.


The larder behaves differently now.
Shelves bare when I stand before them,
full again when I step away.
Jars settling into place
as if they've been waiting
for the sound of my footfall
to move.


The hardwood floors
give off a long, low groan,
the kind a ship makes
when it loosens from the pier.
Boards shifting under me
as though the house
is preparing to leave.


Motes drift in the hallway,
but not in their usual paths.
They forget the routine
they've kept for decades,
turning in slow, uncertain spirals
as if the air has lost its memory.


The stain under the window
has dried three times this week.
Each time it returns
in the same shape,
a faint outline
that refuses to stay gone.


The clock hands
no longer strike their marks.
They swing loosely
between one tick and the next,
never quite landing,
ever quite losing
where the hour should rest.


All of it watching,
all of it waiting,
as if the house
has reached the edge
of what it's willing to keep quiet.













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