_There's a moment in the end when you can listen to them._

Imagen libre en Pixnio #

The man is still at the door, and he won't listen.

He says he knows my mother, but my mother is dead (I explain); he doesn’t seem to care about what I say. He insists; he knocks. He calls her name. He’s really loud.

None of my neighbors seems to listen. I’m beginning to feel desperate. My mother’s dead, I shout. Julianne! Julianne! He keeps calling.

My heart breaks and I die. No one will find me any time soon. It was only the two of us, my mother and I. No one found her either; she became dust. I will, too (I hope).

Julianne! Julianne! He keeps calling. Gosh, he’s loud. Should I disappear once I reach the threshold, I’m not sure. I walk towards the front door and tell him to stop, and, surprisingly, he stops. I’m sorry to bother, child. Where’s the mistress of this house, Julianne? I need to talk to her immediately. I need to tell her that her daughter is about to die.

I try hard not to understand (but I do). Leave! I cry. But he doesn't. He keeps on repeating the same message.

An hour goes by... Countless hours go by.

The man is still at the door.

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## Thanks for reading microfiction.

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