He Never Is

The bed creaks when he turns, though he hasn't moved in hours. Jules lies beside him, eyes open, staring through the ceiling. Outside, a train rattles past, distant and hollow, like the echo of a life they used to recognize.

She speaks, but he doesn't answer. Her words are soft now, not the sharp accusations from earlier. Just grief, curling at the edges of her mouth. She says his name like she's trying to remember who he was. Like maybe if she says it just right, he'll return to the room.

When she cried last week, he stared at his hands. When she asked him to hold her, he said he was tired. When she needed words, he offered silence. Promises crumble in his hands like dried leaves, and lately, all he has left are empty gestures and the weight of unsaid things.

He reaches for his cigarettes, fingers brushing the pack on the nightstand. His eyes drift to the door, then back to the ceiling. The house will stay haunted, and Jules will keep screaming at the ghost of the man lying next to her.

But he's not there.

He never is.

And tomorrow, when the train passes again, she'll sit by the window, hands folded in her lap, waiting for a sound that never comes.