Short Stories

At first, she thought it was stress. People under stress imagine things. That’s what she told herself. But stress doesn’t rearrange silence. It began with the pauses. She would be moving through her apartment — brushing her teeth, folding laundry, standing at the stove — and something in the air would tighten. Not a sound. A compression. Like a room shrinking by an inch. She would stop mid-motion. Listen. Nothing. Still, the sensation remained. Not behind her. Not in front of