Behind the Beige Blinds

Their blinds usually lift at seven,

a small slice of morning heaven,

coffee steam, a quiet sigh,

a life I knew only by.

But two days now, they stay drawn tight,

no car, no sound, no morning light.

Just beige cloth, flat and still,

a sudden silence up the hill.

I know their habits, not their name,

it's strange to feel this little flame

of worry, for a space

I never looked into its face.

What's behind that careful screen?

A life unspooling, or unseen?