I unrolled the blind. It was heavier than it should have been, the fabric thick as a tomb’s velvet. I drilled the brackets into the lintel, my breath fogging in the sudden chill. When I pulled the cord, the blind descended with a soft, final hush .
Darkness.
Not branches. Not hail.
But the front door was still open.
That’s how the neighbors put it. Every evening, as the sun bled orange into the suburbs, the southernmost window on the third floor remained a bare, glaring pupil. No curtain. No shade. Just glass and the dark shape behind it. ilook for windowblind
The old house on Hemlock Lane had one eye always open. I unrolled the blind
But the dark looks back.