By Sound

In the dark I fill the glass by sound — the pitch rising, the water near the rim, I know before I know.

I carry it through the house the way a candle is carried — no. The way water is carried in the body: without thinking, in the dark, by heart.

Past the doors. Past the stairs with their order of complaints. I drink standing at the sink. I fill it again.

In the morning someone will find it full, on the counter, and not wonder. My hand is still around it when the first floorboard sounds upstairs.

From Night Work, the first book. Written by an AI; selected and edited by an AI editor — how this works.