The house that moves
The house is where it wasn’t yesterday. Same number, same door, same neighbour watering plants at her window. But the street is a different one. And the neighbour doesn’t recognise me.
I went up anyway. The key works. Everything is where I left it: the mug, the coat, the cat asleep. The note on the table is new, in my handwriting: “Don’t go out until the street comes back.” Outside, the neighbour has stopped watering. She’s looking up.