The first sign is almost always sound. A light scritch-scratch in the wall, just beyond the edge of your hearing, […]

The basket lives at the bottom of the stairs, tucked against the wall where afternoon light pools in a soft

The drone doesn’t sound like you expect a machine built for war to sound. From the damp darkness at the

The first thing Agnes noticed was the sound. A soft, papery rasp each time she dragged the towel down her

The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not the peaceful, birdsong kind of silence, but the heavy, cotton-in-the-ears stillness

The first time you see it, it doesn’t feel like the future at all. It looks like a relic: a

The first time Evelyn stepped into her new, smaller bathtub, she laughed out loud. Not because anything was funny, exactly,

The woman in the yellow raincoat doesn’t see me watching her. She’s standing at a crosswalk on a drizzly Tuesday,

The sky is still dark when the colossus begins to move. Somewhere between the rusted cranes and sodium lamps of

The first tear catches you off guard, blurring the white curve of the onion beneath your knife. You blink hard,

You only notice it when the house is quiet and the kettle has stopped rattling on the hob. That faint

The first time you flip a mattress that’s been sitting in the same position for years, there’s a strange, quiet

The kettle clicks off with a soft sigh, and you wrap your fingers around the mug, expecting that familiar wave

The first thing you notice is the sound. A faint, rhythmic slap as your right heel kisses the pavement just

The house is quiet in that particular way it only is after dark. The hum of the fridge sounds louder,

The first time you notice it, it’s almost a betrayal. You pull your favorite jeans off the line, the pair

The skillet was still warm on the counter when the chef slid it toward me, black as a raven’s wing

The first thing you’ll notice is the sound. Not the darkness—though that will come—but the sudden, uneasy quiet that sweeps