Porch Light

Claire sits in her cold car with the engine running and the headlights cutting across an empty driveway, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. The studio calm is still in her muscles, a residue of peace earned through hours of movement. But reality is seeping back in through the cracks.

The streets of Broken Hill are deserted — orange streetlamps at intervals, absolute darkness between them. At the first red light, she pulls out her phone. The notification panel is empty. Someone honks behind her when the light changes.

The calm frays with every block. The packed bag. The missing charger. The hours of silence. She grips the steering wheel until her knuckles ache, passing landmarks from her own childhood — the corner shop, the park, the primary school — while the stillness she found at the barre dissolves like frost under harsh sun.

Her mother's house sits at the end of the street with the porch light on, the way it always is. Through the windscreen, Claire can see the kitchen window glowing. Mack and Rose are asleep inside, dreaming innocent dreams. She'll have to decide what to tell them, and when, and how much truth children can bear. But first she'll have to tell Dawn — and Dawn will have opinions. Dawn always has opinions.

Claire can't face her mother's efficiency tonight. But she can't go back to that empty house either. She gets out of the car, walks up the path, and the words arrive before she's ready for them, before the door has even opened.