Will they ever break the silence? It’s been too long. A half-closed curtain dims the light. The end is close at hand.
Lurking just behind the corner, he waits. The shapeshifter. Only once did I witness him standing just outside her window, but the opportunity to warn her escaped me. Memory serves me well: the staircase was impossible to navigate, if you managed to find the entrance. All the houses in the row seemed the same. The sky that day was different; clouds seemed to have lost their way, one drifting north, the other one south, the rest of them descending and ascending rhythmically. Silhouettes of passersby unbothered by all, shrouded in the morning mist, drifted past me. At times, I would see familiar faces at her door, offering aid or giving condolences to the family. Their faces saddened upon hearing the news, they spoke to the husband at the door, refusing to enter. No one stayed longer than five minutes. Mourning lasted only minutes before the city’s cadence swallowed it whole, returning everything to what it was before.

It was different inside.

In the confines of a four-walled box, a life passed, shrouded from the outside world. A delicate, mother’s life. Once minutes now turned into hours, words turned to stone, and all had turned their back onto the hand that once used to feed. Everyday life was but a distant memory. Seasons changed one after another countless times. Every equinox and solstice brought with itself a remnant of a distant time; a memory of days when she would stay up all night and watch the dawn of a new season approach. She knew the entirety of the Messier catalogue by heart, never needing a paper guide or an app to tell her where the stars were. No amount of disorientation could throw her off; place her wherever on the face of the Earth, and she could recognize all objects in the night sky. By observing the leaves, the grass, the rivers and trees, she could tell you the exact month, season, and day.

Nature spoke to her. But not for long.

Life after the incident flowed devoid of all hope; only a family member’s occasional tap on the back and a meal brought to her bed reminded her she was still alive. It stirred the room’s stale air.
I remember: spring was just around the corner that day. Her home was an hour’s drive away from ours, so my sister and I set out before the break of dawn to arrive just before her prescripted wake up time. It was strict: three immunotherapy pills at seven, breakfast at eight, and a nurse’s routine check-up at eleven. And the rest of the day?
Bedsheets. Silence. No one bothered to enter the room.

But only when seen by the outside viewer.

Inside, a trail is overgrown with thorns and tall grass. A star is scorching the earth; rocks are melting, the ground is collapsing into itself. Nearing the end, she rests on a root, almost breathless from the year-long climb to the top. In the distance, she sees the garden, the river, the shelter, and the boulder.
The shapeshifter follows her every step.