First Night Without a Shadow

The hallway light flickers,

a stuttering pulse in a house too quiet.

Floorboards groan beneath my weight,

old bones settling like whispered threats.

I fumble for the switch, hands shaking

like a child afraid of the dark.

Each shadow stretches too long,

painting faces on peeling wallpaper.

Rooms echo with voices I’ve never heard —

laughs from empty chairs, doors closing softly.

I lie awake, tracing the ceiling’s cracks,

counting minutes like breaths,

waiting for the dawn to claim me back.