The woman, in the house opposite ours, groans - long ragged sounds of pain and fear. She reaches out to nothing in particular, trying to hold on something I cannot see and, I am pretty sure, doesn't exist. Her daughter comes in sometimes. She wears a look of concern peppered with annoyance. She hands her a glass. I can almost taste the metallic warm taste of water. The woman wails softly, her papery fingers make eerie shapes in the light cast by the street bulbs.

She rests her head on the pillow but keeps sitting up every few minutes. She cries dry tears that come out raspy and harsh. The daughter asks her to calm down, a tad too loudly. The woman ignores her and beckons the emptiness to come closer. 

Somewhere between the devil's hour and dawn, she hugs the invisible man, her face glows with relief that he has finally arrived. He holds her hand and leads her away, his dark coat giving him an unnecessarily stately appearance.

When morning comes, the woman, or what used to be her, lies on the bed, motionless. Somewhere else, the real woman walks silently alongside the invisible man. In her mind, this is the beginning she had been waiting for. 

In the house opposite ours, people arrive dressed in white, offering flowers and condolences.