Chapter 7 - THE EMPTY APARTMENT
On January 31st, a heavy snow fell over the city of Chicago, coating the streets in a thick blanket of pure white.
Outside the apartment on 4th Street, a rusted yellow moving van was parked against the curb.
Jason stood in the middle of the empty living room, carrying a heavy cardboard box filled with his old work clothes and books.
The apartment was freezing. The heat had been turned down to fifty degrees. The walls were bare, showing square patches of lighter paint where Emily’s framed prints used to hang.
In the kitchen, Margaret sat on a wooden folding chair—the only piece of furniture left—holding a cold paper cup of coffee from the gas station down the street. Her curlers were gone, replaced by a grey wool hat. She looked ten years older, her sharp chin resting weakly against her collarbone.
"Did you pack the microwave, Jason?" Margaret asked, her voice raspy and thin.
"Yes, Mom," Jason said, dropping the heavy box onto the floorboards with a loud THUD. "It's in the van."
"Where are we going to put the sofa at your sister's place?" Margaret muttered bitterly. "Lauren’s basement is damp. It smells like mold. My knees won't handle those stairs."
Jason didn't answer. He walked over to the kitchen window and looked down at the snow-covered street.
Five years ago, he had brought Emily into this apartment. He remembered how she had spent three days painting the kitchen walls a soft, warm yellow. He remembered how she used to bake cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings, the smell filling the whole hallway before he even woke up.
He remembered how she used to look at him with bright, loving eyes, asking him how his shift was, holding his hands when he was tired.
He had thrown it all away.
He had allowed his mother to strip her dignity away piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the woman he had married except a silent shadow holding an apron.
The front door opened.
Emily walked inside, accompanied by the building landlord, an elderly man named Mr. Henderson holding a clipboard.
Emily wore a long camel-wool coat, a ivory silk scarf, and tall brown leather boots. She carried a sleek black leather handbag over her shoulder.
"Everything looks clean, Miss Carter," Mr. Henderson said, inspecting the bare walls and scrubbed kitchen counter. "The security deposit will be returned to your bank account by Friday."
"Thank you, Mr. Henderson," Emily said warmly.
She handed him the set of brass keys.
Jason stepped out of the kitchen, staring at her. "Emily..."
Emily turned her head. Her expression was polite, distant, and completely neutral—the way one looks at a stranger on a subway train.
"Hello, Jason," she said.
"We're... we're moving to Lauren's basement in Naperville," Jason stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "Just until I find a better shift at work."
"I hope it goes well for you," Emily replied gently.
Margaret stood up from her folding chair, shuffling out of the kitchen. She looked at Emily’s expensive coat, her radiant skin, and the quiet confidence that oozed from every inch of her posture.
Margaret opened her mouth to say something—a bitter remark, a curse, an insult—but when she met Emily’s eyes, the words died in her throat.
There was no anger in Emily’s eyes for her to feed on. There was no hurt.
There was only nothing.
Margaret turned away, clutching her paper coffee cup, and walked out the front door toward the cold moving van.
Jason stood alone in the center of the living room, holding his last cardboard box.
"Em," Jason whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Do you... do you ever think about how we started?"
Emily looked around the empty room—the bare floorboards, the cold radiator, the bare window frame where the yellow curtains used to hang.
"No, Jason," Emily said softly, opening the door for him. "I only think about how it ended."
May you like
Jason swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and walked past her out into the cold winter air.
The door closed behind him.
