Uninvited
The city buzzed beyond the apartment walls, a low, lively pulse threading through the quiet.
Arden lingered in the doorway, the weight of the night pressing against her ribs.
Her mind churned with stories buried in deeds and loopholes. Black families clinging to land through wars, through injustice, only to lose it in courtrooms no one bothered to remember.
Generations erased, not with violence, but with signatures. With silence.
She thought about them now—their resilience, their stolen futures—and felt the familiar ache low in her chest.
So many fought so hard to hold on. So many lost it anyway.
The apartment lay hushed before her; it was too quiet.
Penny had texted hours ago—three margaritas deep and laughing somewhere across town—leaving Arden alone in the apartment.
Normally, she welcomed solitude. Tonight, it felt wrong.
After hours in the controlled chaos of The Blackwell Room, the hush clung too tightly. It pressed against her ribs. Hollow. Unnatural.
She fumbled with her keys. The lock resisted before giving with its stubborn click. The door creaked, its hinges murmuring in protest.
Light spilled into the entry as her bag slipped from her shoulder and dropped to the floor with a muted thud.
A long exhale.
She lingered in the doorway. The night hung heavy under her skin. She didn’t want to name it, but the weight throbbed behind her eyes.
She stepped inside. Everything appeared untouched, at least at first.
Penny’s candles had left their usual trace. Vanilla threaded the air, soft and familiar.
The living room bore its usual mess of color and comfort: scarves draped carelessly, sneakers peeking from under the couch, pillows tossed in defeat.
As the latch settled into place, something shifted. The air thickened. Heavier than air had any right to be.
The thought barely finished forming when she noticed it:
A wrongness.
Small. Subtle. But growing sharper with every heartbeat.
The coffee table caught her eye.
The books.
Penny, chaotic as she was, kept that one stack squared. Always. It was her small concession to order.
Now, they were off-kilter.
And resting on top—Arden’s journal.
Not tucked away.
No.
I put it away this morning.
