They said not to sweep at night. The soul—too light, too loose. I swept anyway. The broom cracked. The dust just watched. I left the doorframe bare. No cross. No sign. The house held its breath like it was waiting for mine. The candles sagged. Their wax curled like ears. I stepped over salt like it meant nothing— but it remembered me. Mama’s prayers were folded with string and oil. She said don’t tear them. I chewed one. Nothing changed. Silence grew fat. It filled the rooms like smoke. Soft at first— then too full to move through. I started whispering to no one. When it hurt, I lit the match. The flame bent away. Even smoke turned quiet. I tried to speak her words— the blessing with the crooked ending. But they cracked inside my mouth. And nothing listened.
