Il n'y a rien.

There's nobody left in the world tonight.

Nobody left but me, and the ever-present swishing of the washing machines in the laundry room above my head. "The perks of living on the fifth floor," they would say sarcastically, rolling their eyes. I don't mind it. It's comforting, in a way.

Comforting on nights like these when you get that feeling of something creeping up your back. Not of nerves or apprehension, really. More along the lines of decay. Decomposition? When everything goes silent at an abnormally early hour and something makes you feel the need to tiptoe when you walk, to hesitate before turning corners.

My muscles strain to peel my body from the wall. Blank eyes stare at me from reflective surfaces.

Perhaps the cold, never-ending rain is to blame, and we wilt slowly along with the trees outside the window, so slowly that we don't even notice until there are nights like these, when we fall asleep to escape the cold, and wake up to the deafening roar of silence mixed with the ticking of our internal clocks.

The small lamplights lights below my window look like a landing strip. I am the pilot of an empty flight.