The phone is ringing.

The rain and the chill have by turns chased us together, and then teased us apart. We have gathered into thick knots of family, invading rooms to fill them, until we scatter to corners of the house in search of weathering peace. We compress, expand. The house is breathing us.

The house exhales. We have fled each other, and the afternoon has settled quiet over this place, letting in only the barest drumming of the rain on the roof. The noise is easily swept into commonplace and ignored, but I am listening.

I have crept in here, into the far corner of the living room. I have my book, half read, and a small pot of salted almonds. I choose the comfortable chair in an effort to be wise, and perhaps a little greedy. I wonder at it now. The chair is next to the phone.

The bell burbles at me. There is no other phone, and I do not hear anyone coming to get this one. There is a heavy stillness, strangely made more so by the insistent peal. It seems suddenly that I am alone in the house. The handle is smooth to the touch, and cool.

I hold the receiver to my ear, but I do not know what to say.

There is static and buzz on the wire. It comes in gentle swells, quietly washing the line clean. There are other noises, too: muddled and uncertain earmarks of work and movement, somewhere on the far end of the other side. Someone makes a small sound. It may be a question; it may be meant for me. But they are gone, now, and the line is quiet again.