The Empty Table
The house key stuck the way it always did, that half-second hesitation in the lock like the door itself was deciding whether he deserved to come in. Jake jiggled it twice, shoulder against the frame, and finally it gave with a click that echoed down the hallway into rooms that had nothing waiting in them.
"Hello?" he called out, not because he expected an answer, but because the silence felt worse if he didn't try.
Nothing answered back except the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the hallway clock, steady and indifferent, counting down a day that had already ended for everyone except him.
He dropped his backpack by the stairs, where it would sit until morning, and wandered into the kitchen. The overhead light buzzed on, flooding the room in a pale yellow that made everything look slightly sick—the counters too clean, the stovetop untouched, a single sticky note on the fridge in his mother's slanted handwriting: *Leftovers in freezer. Love you. —Mom.* No name attached to who the leftovers were for. There was no need. There was only ever one person left to feed.
Freshman year had started that morning with the kind of chaos Jake had imagined for months—crowded hallways,…