The Last Light
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 232
In a creaky farmhouse in rural Mississippi, just after sunset. The wind clawed at the shutters like it wanted in. Mabel sat in her rocker, one slippered foot keeping rhythm, the other resting near the cold fireplace.
Then—there it was.
“I hear a noise downstairs.”
Her voice cracked the silence like a match in a dark room.
"My Lord, what now?"
She rose slowly. Not out of fear, but from old bones stiff with memory.
Each stair announced her with a groan. The kitchen light was off, but she saw the shadow move across the linoleum.
She flipped the switch.
A boy—skinny, dirt-smudged, eyes wide—stood with a piece of cornbread halfway to his mouth.
He flinched.
“Take the butter too,” she said, voice steady.
He blinked.
“Or sit. That chair’s not taken.”
He hovered, uncertain, then slid into the seat once reserved for her youngest son.
She placed the butter on the table. Poured him milk like it was any other night.
“Marcus,” he mumbled, almost ashamed.
She studied his face in the yellow light. Something in the shape of his eyes made her breath hitch.
He looked like her youngest—before the war, before the silence.
“You cold, Marcus?”
He nodded.
She stood, took the old quilt from the couch, and wrapped it around him.
The house, for a long time, had echoed with absence.
Now it breathed again.
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