PART 2 — The Morning the Empty Leash Went Public
By the time I got home, the coffee was still hot.
That mattered to me more than it should’ve.
Because lately, the only thing in my life that still obeyed the rules was heat—water turning into steam, beans turning into something that smelled like mornings used to smell.
I hung the leash on the hook by the door like it was a living thing that needed rest.
Then I stood there a long time, hand still wrapped around the red nylon, listening to the house do what it always did now—settle, creak, breathe in the empty way old houses breathe when they’re holding too much silence.
On the kitchen counter, the brochure for that place—Silver Creek—caught the early light and shined like a warning.
The smiling gray-haired couple on the front looked like they’d never had to bury anyone.
I poured the coffee into my wife’s mug anyway.
Her mug had a chip on the rim that she refused to throw out because she said it “gave it character.”
I set it on the table.
Across from my own chair.
Like she might still come shuffling in, hair a mess, looking at me like I’d done something ridiculous and lovable.
“Lovely morning,” I whispered.
And then my phone started vibrating on the counter.
I don’t keep it on me.
I hate the feeling of it in my pocket, buzzing like a trapped insect, demanding that I live faster than my body wants to.
But it kept buzzing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I stared at it like it was a snake.
And then I saw the name on the screen.
JESSICA.
My daughter only called that early when something was wrong.
I picked up.
“Dad,” she said, and I could hear it already—tight breath, tight voice, the sound of fear pretending to be anger. “What did you do?”
“I made coffee,” I said. “Same as always.”
“No,” she snapped. “Not coffee. This.”
There was a pause. Then, as if she couldn’t make herself say the words without choking on them—
“You’re on the internet.”
