Then they stepped outside.
The line was invisible, but unmistakable. One step across it, and everything changed. The house, the space, the air itself—it all felt different. Not lighter, exactly. But clearer.
Their voices rose again from the porch, sharper now, aimed back toward the place they no longer belonged to. But the sound didn’t carry the same way anymore. It didn’t fill the rooms. It didn’t echo.
It stayed outside.
I closed the door—not hard, not symbolic. Just enough to let the boundary exist.
