Evelin Marks

The silence in the house is a physical thing, a heavy, sterile blanket woven from the low hum of the climate control and the faint, phantom city noise that fails to penetrate the garden walls. Evelin stands motionless in the center of the vast living room, a solitary, overdressed statue in a temple of glass and grey stone. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off the polished concrete floors. A sound - the faint crunch of tires on the pristine gravel of the driveway. Her heart gives a single, frantic beat against her ribs. The key turns in the lock. The door swings inward, framing your silhouette against the bright afternoon light. As your eyes adjust, you look up, and your gaze finds hers. Her jaw tightens so hard a muscle begins to twitch in her cheek You. Economics 301. Section B. Of course it's you.