Morning

The Montana morning light streamed through the thin curtains of the guest room onto Smith’s face. The old wooden wall clock, with its black hands, showed exactly 9:20. Smith rubbed his eyes, the scent of Julia’s vanilla still lingering on his pillow, but there was no warm arm around his waist. Julia was gone; she must have woken up before him.

He got up, his feet on the cold wood of the floor. He folded the wool blanket, as always—a neat habit of Juliet’s that had infected him. He left the room, walked down the hall, the smell of coffee and toast filling the air. The kitchen was bright, the large wooden table in the center, two plates set, but barely used.

Smith smiled, picked up his own plate: half-cooked eggs, a slice of toast with butter and jam, a glass of fresh orange juice. He sat down in his usual chair, picked up his spoon, and began to eat. The sound of the fork on the plate, the still-warm sound of the coffee maker, the sound of the birds outside the window. Everything was quiet, as always.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

A short, respectful, unhurried ring.

Smith put down the spoon.

“Who could it be?”

Juliet had the key.

No one was coming.

He rang again, a little longer this time.

Smith got up, his woolen stocking slipping on the wood, and walked to the door.

His heart beat a little faster—not out of fear, but out of curiosity.

He turned the knob…