Three in the morning.
The only sound
is cardstock
sliding
against cardstock.
The house
holds its breath.
A candle flickers.
My cat
watches the empty chair
as though
someone invisible
has joined the reading.
Maybe they have.
Or maybe
the only ghost
left in this room
is the woman
I used to be.
Either way,
the cards
keep reminding me
that every ending
has another card
waiting beneath it.
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