Nothing More

It’s the wind. It’s the extractor fan rattling, a stiff breeze coming in through the closed front door. The cold whisper over your shoulders nothing more than a blast of cold air.

It’s the building. It’s the neighbours shuffling furniture, the brickwork expanding in the sun’s heat, poor workmanship that’s led to uneven, creaky floors. The knock on the desk beside you nothing more than its wood settling.

It’s you. Your overactive imagination sees shadows when there are none. Your irrational th...