Author name: Mathew Haden

The first thing you notice is the sound. That low, constant hum that has followed you for years suddenly goes […]

The old clay pot was the color of baked bread and warm dust. Its rim was chipped, its sides faintly

The news slipped out on a quiet weekday afternoon, the way truly seismic things sometimes do. A few lines in

The first thing you notice is the sound of your feet. A gentle, rubber-on-concrete whisper, rhythmic and oddly comforting. It’s

The news arrived, as these things often do, on an ordinary morning that didn’t look like it would change anyone’s

The first time I learned that switching off the radiators in empty rooms might be a bad idea, I actually

The news broke just after dawn, somewhere between the first cup of coffee and the second scroll through the morning

The first time I met a pitanga tree, I didn’t know its name. I only remember the flash of red

The cash machine beside the corner shop is fading into the grey of a drizzly afternoon. Its screen is dark,

The first time you noticed it, you were standing in line somewhere ordinary—a coffee shop, a bus stop, the slow‑moving

The first time I saw Evelyn walking backwards around the lake, I was sure she’d forgotten something. A scarf, a

The morning mail arrived with the soft thump that always made Ellen pause. At seventy-two, she had learned that envelopes

The sky above Anfield had that particular shade of Liverpool grey – somewhere between steel and saltwater – when the

The first time I heard the rumor, I was standing in a dim kitchen that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner

The sauce had been simmering for almost an hour when the chef did something that made everyone in the kitchen

The first time it happens, you don’t think it’s you. You’re standing in line for coffee, thumb hovering over your

The first time I heard someone say, “Forget the foil behind your radiators—there’s a smarter trick,” I was standing in

The first image looks like a cloud that forgot the rules of being a cloud. It glows from within, not

The first thing you notice isn’t the machine. It’s the sound—low, steady, like a giant metal bee humming to itself.

The sky above you this December might look ordinary—soft clouds, a pale winter sun, the same breath of cold brushing

The news slipped quietly into the world on an otherwise ordinary weekday: the longest solar eclipse of the century now