peer

On a slightly cold day, the light by the window is soft and strong. There is one corner of the room that turns into a patch of sunlight. I pull a low platform and some cloth over there, making a simple place to nap. Under the fabric, a faint warmth lingers. The chill from outside and the looseness inside blend just right.

On the table are three Honeycrisps. A small paring knife beside them. Two remote controls, and for some reason, a spoon.

I always peel apples in one continuous strip. Turning them slowly so it doesn’t break. When it works, it stretches into a long, thin ribbon.

The video keeps playing, but I’m not really watching. It’s probably near the end of the story. Wind, water, someone calling a name. I’m half asleep, and I barely remember the images. Only the sounds remain.

—A voice like, don’t go. —A voice like, it’s okay. —Then it quiets, just a little, and ends.

That’s when I wake up. Text marking the end scrolls by. White symbols on a black screen. The apple peel lies loosely coiled on the plate.

“That ending was good, right?” My friend says that later.

We often go out together to get something quick to eat. The kind where they fill it for you on the spot. Wrapped in paper, we take it and bite into it while it’s still a little warm, walking along. That day was like that too. In a bright place where people gather, they opened a long piece of bread, still wrapped in paper, with one hand.

“Huh? Which part?” “You know—the part where they turn back.” “Turn back?” “Yeah. And then there’s this pause—”

I go quiet. Was there a scene like that?

When I search my memory, all I find are sounds. Wind. Water. Someone calling a name. There’s a sense of “turning back,” maybe. But it’s not something I saw. It’s something that got attached afterward.

“…I think I fell asleep.” “What a waste! That’s the best part.”

He laugh.

The paper wrapper crinkles. I understand the feeling of “what a waste.” But something catches slightly.

Then what is the ending I remember?

I go back and play the same piece again. This time, I mean to watch it properly. I stay out of the sunlight, don’t touch the apples.

The story progresses, approaching the ending in question. My heart beats just a little faster.

—and then it ends.

The “turning back” my friend mentioned is there. It’s definitely there. But what comes after is different.

The ending I remember is quieter. More like nothing happens, just a soft fade.

I pause the screen, rewind, and watch again. It’s the same. This is the correct ending. Probably.

I set down the remote. Return to the patch of sunlight. Press the knife into a Honeycrisp.

As usual, I try to peel it in one continuous strip. Turning it slowly so it won’t break.

The blade moves. The red skin loosens into a thin ribbon.

—I lose track of how much I’ve peeled.

My hand stops.

On the plate, there is far more peel than I expected, quietly gathered.

I don’t remember peeling this much. And yet it hasn’t broken. It continues, a single strand.

I should have turned the video off, and yet somehow, the sound remains.

Wind. Water. A voice calling a name.

—then it quiets, just a little, and ends.

I think—

maybe, back then, the “ending of sound” I heard while half asleep was the real ending for me.

Between the chill outside and the warmth within.

Like it doesn’t have to be the same as anyone else’s.

I look at the sensation left in my fingertips. The peel still feels connected, somewhere.