There’s a particular kind of quiet that shows up after a party—the kind that makes even a familiar room feel a little different. The closet door is still, but the evidence has wandered out into the open: a tangle of chain, a small key, black ribbon looping over itself, and that gold headpiece slumped like a tired crown.
In the bright, honest light of morning, everything looks more deliberate than it was. The shiny pieces catch the sun and throw it back in soft reflections, as if they’re trying to remember the music. I stand there long enough to hear the apartment settle—floorboards, distant street noise, the faint hum of the day starting without us.
It’s funny how the smallest items can hold the whole night. Not the loud parts, not the blurry parts, but the in-between: laughing in a hallway, leaning into a mirror to fix one last detail, the moment you decide you’re fine to stay out five more minutes.
Later, I’ll sort the mess. I’ll unknot the chain and return the key to wherever keys are supposed to live. For now, I let the scene sit as it is: a modest still life from Williamsburg, proof that something happened here, and that it was worth cleaning up after.
