I Passed by the House | Noir Jazz Playlist скачать в хорошем качестве

I Passed by the House | Noir Jazz Playlist

Every morning at 6:40, I passed the house on Ellen Street. I took the long way to the train station—not for the exercise, but because the shorter route ran by the elementary school, and I couldn’t stand the noise. Ellen Street was always quiet. Nothing ever seemed to change. The house was third from the corner. A two-story brick with faded green shutters and a mailbox that leaned slightly left. I never saw anyone come or go. There was a car—an old beige sedan with rust along the bottom—that parked there some days, but not others. It never moved during the hours I passed by. I began to think of it as a fixture, like the cracked sidewalk or the crooked chain-link fence next door. In February, a light appeared in one of the upstairs windows. It was soft and yellow, barely visible at dawn. At first, I thought someone had left it on overnight, but then I noticed it wasn’t always there. Some days, the window stayed dark. There was no pattern I could make out. Tuesdays and Thursdays, mostly. But not always. I told myself I wasn’t interested, but I started checking. Every morning, I glanced up at that window as I passed. Sometimes it was lit. Sometimes it wasn’t. The curtain behind the glass never moved. In March, a set of footprints appeared in the yard. The grass was still dead and hard from winter, and the prints stayed for days—small, deep impressions leading from the front door to the sidewalk, and then back again. No others ever joined them. A week later, I passed the house in the late afternoon. I’d left work early, hoping to beat a storm. As I turned onto Ellen Street, I saw someone at the window. A narrow figure, backlit by the same pale yellow light. The curtain hung still beside them. They weren’t looking out, not exactly. Just standing there. Their head was slightly turned, like they were listening. I slowed a little, but didn’t stop. The next morning, the light was off. The window was empty. By April, the footprints had faded, and the car wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t think much of it. Things change. People leave. I assumed someone had moved out, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing a moving truck. One morning, I passed by and the mailbox was open. A single white envelope stuck out, unsealed. It stayed like that for three days, and then it was gone. The door closed, no sign of the letter. A few petals from the neighbor’s dogwood had blown into the porch corner. I never saw the person at the window again. In May, the light came on in the kitchen. A different window, downstairs, around the side. The soft yellow glow, familiar now, but somehow colder through the lower glass. I almost didn’t notice it at first. It was barely dawn. Birds hadn’t started yet. I stood across the street for a while, staring. Then I kept walking. I didn’t look back. By summer, the house seemed the same as ever. Shutters still faded, mailbox still tilted. Grass a little longer. No lights, no car, no footprints. The curtains in the upstairs window were gone. Just bare glass now. One morning in July, I saw a child’s shoe on the porch. Small, red, worn at the toe. It was gone the next day. Nothing else changed. I moved to a new apartment in August, closer to work. I don’t walk past Ellen Street anymore. But last week, on the way home, the train paused at the old crossing. Through the window, I saw a figure standing by the chain-link fence near the corner. Not moving. Facing the house. I thought they might be looking at the upstairs window, but it was hard to tell from that angle. The porch light was on. - All stories and music are copyrighted by quiet, now.