Faded Glow

The city was quiet in that eerie way it gets when a storm threatens to break but hasn’t yet. The sky hung low, bloated with dark clouds, and the faint glow of streetlights flickered intermittently, as if unsure whether to fight the impending darkness or surrender. In her small apartment on the fifth floor, Miriam sat on the edge of her worn couch, fingers tracing the rim of an old teacup, the kind with little cracks spidering out from the center. The cup had no tea in it—just the memory of it.

The apartment was dominated by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city below. She could see everything—the distant outlines of high-rises, the narrow alleyways that carved through the blocks, and the sprawling streets now gleaming under the faint, watery glow of the streetlights. Beyond the glass, the storm was thickening, and every now and then, a gust of wind would shake the window panes, sending ripples across the pools of light outside.

The storm grew angrier by the minute. Rain began to pelt harder against the glass, and Miriam watched the trees outside sway violently, their branches whipped by the wind. Just as she shifted her weight on the couch, a sudden, blinding flash of lightning lit up the entire skyline. For an instant, the city was stark and vivid, like a photograph caught in the split-second brilliance of day. Then, almost simultaneously, her phone buzzed violently on the table beside her.

You need to get out more, Miri. Life’s still out there.

Before she could react, the world erupted with a thunderclap so loud and sharp it felt like it had shattered the air itself. The windows rattled as though they might break, and the floor trembled beneath her feet. It wasn’t the deep, distant roll of thunder that came after a storm, but an explosion of sound, like the lightning had struck right outside her window. The force of it reverberated through the walls, and Miriam felt it in her chest, an impact that left the air humming with leftover electricity.

Her heart lurched. She stared out the window, expecting to see something—sparks, smoke, a tree split in two—but there was nothing, just the steady drum of rain and the far-off growl of the storm retreating.

The phone buzzed again, insistent against the silence left behind by the fading thunder, its vibration rattling across the table. She glanced at the screen.

You need to get out more, Miri.

She turned away from the phone and glanced up at the flickering bulb housed in a once-beautiful Tiffany glass lampshade that hung from the ceiling. The intricate stained glass—vivid blues, greens, and golds—cast fractured colors across the room, though many of the pieces had dulled over time. The lamp was a remnant of better days, a touch of elegance that hinted at a life that had once been more luxurious. Now, it seemed out of place in the sparse apartment, like a jewel in a tarnished setting, its beauty still visible, but fading under the weight of neglect and time.

Miriam rose to check the bulb, stretching on her toes with a grace that lingered in her limbs despite the years that had passed since anyone had called her graceful. She twisted the bulb slightly, but it continued to flicker, indifferent to her effort. Frustrated, she pulled away and caught her reflection in the window. Outside, rain began to fall even harder, each drop hitting the glass with a steady, rhythmic pulse.

A knock on the door startled her, cutting through the soft drumming of the rain. She glanced at the clock—too late for visitors. Another knock, louder this time.

She hesitated before pulling the door open a crack, her hand still gripping the knob. Standing in the hallway, drenched and unbothered, was a man in a dark hoodie, water dripping from the edge of his brow. His face was sharp, unshaven, and his eyes—blue, piercing—locked onto hers with a strange familiarity, like he already knew something about her that she hadn’t yet figured out.

“You got any light?” he asked, glancing up at the flickering bulb. His tone wasn’t polite, but it wasn’t rude, either. Just direct.

Miriam blinked, unsure how to answer. “It’s not working right.”

The man smirked, like her answer amused him. “That’s the thing about lights. Sometimes they just need a little push to stay on.”

She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze drifting back toward the windows as the storm picked up outside. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the street below shimmered in the glow of passing headlights.

“Do you have a flashlight I could borrow?” he asked, glancing past her at the flickering light overhead.

She had a flashlight somewhere, but she hadn’t bothered to use it. There was no one she wanted to see and nothing she wanted to be illuminated.

Miriam blinked, then nodded slightly. Without a word, she turned and crossed the room, retrieving an old flashlight from a drawer by the window. When she handed it to him, he took it with a small, almost amused smile, like he’d expected nothing less. 

The man looked past her again and around her apartment, seeing it more clearly and cataloging each little detail—the empty shelves, the stack of unopened mail, the rug that was worn in one spot more than the rest, as if she spent most of her time standing there, like something had tethered her to that single place.

“You don’t go out much, do you?” he asked.

She bristled at the intrusion. “Not your business.”

“Not trying to pry.” He lifted his hands slightly, as if to show he meant no harm. “Just figured it’s not the lights that are the problem.”

Miriam shot him a cold glance, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was focused on the floor beneath her, where she had unconsciously begun to shift her feet, back and forth, like her legs remembered something her mind didn’t want to. A small, measured step here, a turn of her heel there. She stilled, tightening her arms around her body.

“Don’t let it go out,” he said, his voice softer now, almost like a warning. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, it felt like he could see every crack in her that she had tried so hard to hide.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though the tension in the air made it sound like a shout.

The man tilted his head, studying her. “To remind you.”

“Of what?”

“That light doesn’t just go out on its own. You let it. You choose it.”

His words settled like a weight in her chest.

“You used to fight for it. I can see it in the way you stand, the way your body knows something you’ve forgotten. But now… you’ve stopped.”

She looked down at her feet, seeing the way her toes had instinctively aligned in the position they used to when she would take the stage. That same old itch in her muscles, that deep-rooted muscle memory that refused to let her stand still for too long. She didn’t dance anymore. She had left that life behind, let it flicker out like this dim bulb. But her body hadn’t forgotten, and apparently, neither had this strange man who spoke as if he knew her soul.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said sharply, stepping away from him and toward the window.

The city sprawled beneath her, alive with the pulse of traffic, the heartbeat of a place that never stopped moving. A place she had once been part of. A place she had abandoned, choosing silence over movement, stillness over the rhythm she used to live by.

The man stood quietly for a moment before backing away from the door. “Maybe I don’t. But you do.” He paused, slightly turned aside, and added, “Just don’t wait until it’s too late to remember.”

As he walked away, the bulb overhead flared once more, brighter this time, casting long shadows that danced across the room. Miriam closed the door and then stood there, watching the shadows, her heart beating faster. Her legs twitched, her fingers flexed, and before she could stop herself, she turned.

Just one small step. A half-spin. A shift of weight from one foot to the other. Her body moved without thought, gliding through the dim light of the apartment, shadows swaying around her like partners she had once known. It wasn’t the stage. There was no audience. But it was movement. It was something.

Outside, the rain pounded harder, but inside, Miriam danced. She moved, not for anyone, not for an audience, but because she could. Because something inside her still burned, still fought to flicker and grow, even in the darkness.

The light didn’t go out. Not that night.