“There’s always one sheet left,” Mari said quietly, staring at the paper towel roll mounted above her kitchen sink. No matter how many she used, one pristine white sheet remained, defying both physics and logic.
I sat at her small kitchen table, warming my hands around a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The morning light filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting ladder-like shadows across the linoleum floor.
“How long has this been happening?” I asked.
“Three weeks, two days.” Mari’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. She reached up and tore off the last sheet, just as she had done countless times before. We both watched as another materialized in its place, crisp and untouched.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“Who would believe me?” She smiled faintly. “Besides, you’re the only one who visits anymore.”
Mari had always been different after her husband disappeared last year. The police found his car at a rest stop along Highway 41, the engine still warm, a half-eaten sandwich on the passenger seat. No note, no body, no explanation.
“Watch,” she said, tearing off another sheet. And another appeared. “It’s like time refuses to move forward in this kitchen. Everything stays the same, frozen in that moment.”
I understood what she meant. The kitchen looked exactly as it had the day her husband vanished - same unwashed coffee mug by the sink, same calendar showing last July, same newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle he never finished.
“Maybe it’s trying to tell you something,” I suggested.
Mari’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for the paper towel again. “The day before he disappeared, we had a fight. He spilled his coffee, and I got angry because we were out of paper towels. Such a stupid thing to argue about.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, meaningful. Outside, a train whistle echoed in the distance, lonely and prolonged.
“Sometimes I think,” Mari continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “if I use up all the paper towels in the world, he might come back. Like it’s some sort of cosmic trade.”
I wanted to tell her that’s not how the world works, that some mysteries remain unsolved, that sometimes people just leave. Instead, I watched as she tore off another sheet, and another appeared in its place, white and pristine as fresh snow.
“Would you like more coffee?” she asked suddenly, already reaching for the pot. I noticed her wedding ring glinting in the morning light, still perfectly positioned on her finger.
“Sure,” I said, though we both knew I wouldn’t drink it.
The kitchen clock ticked steadily on the wall, marking time in a room where time seemed to have lost all meaning. Mari poured the coffee, and we sat in comfortable silence, watching the endless paper towels appear and disappear, like waves lapping at the shore of an infinite ocean.
Behind us, the door remained unlocked, just as she had left it that morning one year ago, waiting for a return that the paper towels seemed to promise but never quite delivered.