An old woman who lingers at the doorway isn’t hesitating—she’s giving you time to imagine what she’s not saying. Her hand rests on the doorknob, not twisting it, just holding on, as if the wood might whisper the words she can’t. The porch light casts a golden circle around her, turning her silver hair to thread and her worn sweater to something soft, and in that pause, she lets the silence do the talking.
You’d asked her to stay, to let the rain stop, but she’d shaken her head, saying something about the cat needing fed. Now she lingers, her gaze drifting past your shoulder to the kitchen table where you’d shared pie, to the chair where her grandson had sat last Christmas, to all the spaces that hold memory. She’s not stalling—she’s letting you fill the quiet with what she can’t voice: I’ll miss this. I’m proud of you. Don’t forget to water the roses.
Her lips part, like she might speak, then close again. You notice the way her fingers tighten on the doorknob, the way her shoulders slump just a little, and suddenly you understand. This is her gift—time to hear the unsaid, to let the moments between you settle into something lasting.
She finally turns, giving you a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and steps into the rain. The door clicks shut, but the silence stays, thick with all she left unspoken. And you know—she gave you exactly enough time to catch every word.