Summer Months -

On her last morning, she sat on the porch swing one final time. The bay was the color of hammered pewter. A single sailboat cut a slow path toward the horizon.

The first night, she woke at 3 a.m. to silence so complete it had a texture—thick, almost velvety. No sirens, no subway rumble, no upstairs neighbor’s television bleeding through the ceiling. Just the soft tick of the house settling, and somewhere far off, a single bird testing a note. summer months

July brought heat that pressed the air flat. The porch swing was useless by noon; she moved inside to the north-facing bedroom, where a ceiling fan turned slow circles. She read novels so long they felt like places she lived in. She learned to can peaches from the orchard two miles down the road. The syrup stained her fingers amber for days. On her last morning, she sat on the

One evening, a thunderstorm rolled in off the bay. She sat on the screened porch and watched the sky split and mend, split and mend. The power went out. She lit candles, made a sandwich by flashlight, and realized she hadn’t checked her phone in six hours. The first night, she woke at 3 a

The rental ad had said, “Perfect for summer months.” Four words, clipped and optimistic, typed beneath a photo of a small white cottage with robin’s-egg-blue shutters.