The building across the street saw everything.

Flyers of missing pets—printed cards for an attorney’s office—littered napkins—were all lifted by the wind and bounced against the pavement. Beat-up Corollas and shiny, practical Hondas blurred into ghosts of color at such a rate, they might have never been there. That building, with its double doors, its faded bricks of mismatched mauve and slate grey, dandelions crawling up its base—it could only stand firm, unyielding, in reaction to whatever whirred past it. Everything seemed so fast from where it stood on guard like a sentinel, feeling the loss as it felt its inhabitants leave, wondering where they went. When they might return.

Sometimes, those cars pulled into the lot past the street. People sporting logo-plastered t-shirts balanced a foot on the wall out front as they smoked. Others circled further back, beyond what could be seen. Drunk friends hollered as they stumbled out, carrying each other, someone quieter snatching the keys. Sometimes, a man walked a woman to her car. Sometimes, she smiled. Sometimes.

On this night, one of the building’s inhabitants stumbled home, her hair slipping out from a ponytail, bags like bruises underneath her eyes. Still, it liked the way she always came from that same direction. The sky was a deeper dark than usual as she struggled with the turn of the key.

That building felt this more than anything: the weight of her return. The press of her forehead, slick with cold sweat, against the glass as she heaved out these dry, awful sobs before slamming her fist. It could do nothing but stand firm as she tried to melt into the glass. It could do nothing but bear witness as she pulled herself upright, sniffling as she stood a little straighter, and began to try again.