With nothing but footprints, bottles, and his own word, they would shrug, maybe send someone over for a polite talk. It wouldn’t change anything. Not really. So he resolved to watch. That night, Arthur sat by the kitchen window, the lights off, a mug of tea cooling beside him.
The pool lay in still moonlight, glassy and patient. He tried to hold himself awake, checking the clock every hour, listening for the faintest sound beyond the walls. But age tugged at him, and by the time he surrendered to bed, he told himself perhaps they were finished.