The Taxonomy of the Unsaid

The kettle clicked off, but she didn’t move. Steam curled upward, vanishing into the silence. The kitchen smelled faintly of toast and lemon soap. Outside, the garden was slick with rain, the patio glistening like glass. A single sock lay abandoned on the radiator; his, probably. Or hers. She couldn’t remember. The mug in her hand had a chip. She traced the crack with her thumb, then set it down without pouring. The cupboard door hung slightly ajar. She closed it. Opened it again. Closed it. The clock ticked. ticked. ticked. She wandered into the living room. The sofa sagged in the middle, cushions askew. A photo frame lay face down on the coffee table. She turned it over. Their wedding day. Her smile looked rehearsed, his didn’t. She placed it back carefully, then turned it down again. The rain had stopped. She stepped outside; barefoot. The cold bit at her heels. The garden was quiet except for the drip of water from the gutter. A robin hopped along the fence, watching her. She watched back. The wind lifted her hair. She didn’t brush it away. She walked to the shed. The door creaked open. Inside, the smell of soil and old paint. A box of Christmas lights sat on the shelf, tangled. She touched them, then let go. Back inside, she sat at the kitchen table. Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister: Thinking of you. Call anytime. She stared at it. Typed Thanks. Deleted it. Typed, I’m okay. Deleted that too. She put the phone down. The fridge hummed. The light flickered overhead. She reached for the kettle again, poured the water, watched it swirl over the tea bag like a storm. She didn’t drink it. Instead, she opened the back door again and stood there, mug in hand, watching the sky shift from grey to something paler. A neighbour’s dog barked. A car passed. Somewhere, a child laughed. She closed her eyes. The mug warmed her palms. The air smelled of wet earth and something faintly sweet; honeysuckle, maybe. Or memory. She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She just stood there.

The street had no name, only a memory of one; its sign long rusted into illegible curls. Lamplight flickered overhead, not with warmth but with the twitch of something uncertain, like a thought half-formed. The pavement was slick, not from rain but from the breath of the night itself, exhaling cold against the soles of her boots. She walked fast, but not too fast. Fast enough to seem purposeful. Slow enough not to draw attention. Her coat was too thin. It clung to her like a second skin, whispering with each movement. The wind tugged at her scarf, playful at first, then insistent, like a child who didn’t know when to stop. She didn’t stop. Not even when the wind hissed through the alleyways like it knew her name. A cat darted across the road, its eyes twin moons in the dark. She jumped. Not at the cat, but at the echo of her own breath catching. It sounded too loud. Too alone. Behind her, a bottle rolled. Not broken. Not thrown. Just rolled. She didn’t turn. Turning meant acknowledging. Acknowledging meant…
Her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag. Knuckles pale. Shoulders drawn up like a question she didn’t want to ask. The street narrowed. Buildings leaned in, conspiratorial. Windows stared down, blank and unblinking. One flickered. She didn’t look up. She didn’t want to know if it was a light or a face. Her phone buzzed. She didn’t check it. The glow would make her visible. A beacon. A target. Footsteps. Not hers. She stopped breathing. They weren’t close. Not yet. But they didn’t belong to her rhythm. Her rhythm was cautious. These were confident. Heavy. Like they knew the street. Like they knew her. She crossed the road. Not a run. A glide. A decision made without thought. Her shadow followed, elongated, distorted by the lamplight’s indecision. The footsteps paused. She didn’t. A door ahead—chipped paint, a brass handle dulled by time. She didn’t know the house. Didn’t care. She knocked. Once. Twice. A third time, harder. No answer. She turned back. The street was empty. No footsteps. No bottle. No cat. Just silence. She exhaled. It felt like betrayal. Then, a laugh. Soft. Behind her. She didn’t scream. Screaming would mean she was prey. Instead, she walked. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough. The laugh didn’t follow. But the sound between her footsteps did. It always did.

The sky had split open at 2:17 a.m. He knew the exact time because his telescope app had pinged—unusual activity, quadrant 4B. He’d been halfway through a rewatch of The Expanse, bowl of cereal balanced on his lap, when the tremor hit. Not an earthquake. Not thunder. Something else. Now, standing at the edge of the woods, breath fogging in the cold, he saw it. The ship. It wasn’t sleek or silver. It looked like a beetle cracked in half, its hull scorched and steaming, embedded in the earth like a fallen god. Trees had bent away from the impact, their branches stripped bare. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic, like blood and rain. He stepped closer. His boots squelched in the mud. A low hum pulsed from the wreckage, rhythmic, almost musical. Lights blinked along the underside—blue, then green, then a color he couldn’t name. He reached out, hand trembling, and touched the surface. It was warm. A panel hissed open. He stumbled back, heart hammering. Mist poured out, thick and luminous. Then—movement. A shape. Tall. Lithe. Limbs too long. Eyes like polished obsidian. He froze. The figure stepped forward. Its skin shimmered, shifting between hues—violet, copper, sea-glass green. It tilted its head, studying him. Then it raised one hand, fingers splayed, palm glowing faintly. He laughed. Not a nervous laugh. Not fear. Pure, unfiltered joy. His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground, grinning like a child on Christmas morning.
“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re actually real.” The alien blinked. Then, slowly, it knelt beside him. A second figure emerged. Then a third. They didn’t speak. Not with words. But something passed between them—an understanding, a recognition. He felt it in his chest, like music vibrating through bone. He pulled out his phone, hands shaking, and snapped a photo. Then another. Then he stopped. It felt wrong. Sacred. Like photographing a miracle. The first alien reached out again, touching his forehead lightly. A rush of images flooded his mind—stars, cities made of light, creatures swimming through nebulae. He gasped. Then, just as quickly, it withdrew. The ship groaned. Lights flickered. The figures turned, retreating into the mist. One paused, looking back. A nod. Then gone. The panel sealed shut. He stood there for a long time, staring at the wreckage, heart thudding. The hum faded. The lights dimmed. Silence returned. He didn’t move. Not until dawn broke, painting the sky in gold and rose. Not until birds began to sing again. Not until he realised his cheeks were wet—not from fear, but from wonder.

The bell rang, and the corridor filled with the usual tide; rucksacks swinging, trainers squeaking, voices bouncing off the walls like tennis balls. He lingered by the noticeboard, pretending to study the Year 11 exam schedule. His tie was slightly askew, collar stiff against his neck. He tugged it, then stopped. Too obvious. She was there. Just ahead, near the science block, chatting with someone from her form. Her blazer fit perfectly, sleeves rolled just enough to look casual without breaking uniform code. Her laugh; he’d heard it before, but never this close, was light, like a ripple across still water. He adjusted his grip on his folder. Biology. That was the plan. Ask about the mitochondria worksheet. Nothing dramatic. Just a question. Just words. She turned. Their eyes met. His stomach flipped. She walked toward him, her steps unhurried, her expression open. He tried to look relaxed, leaning one shoulder against the wall. It felt unnatural. He straightened.
“Hi,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re in Miss Ahmed’s class, right?” He nodded.
“Yeah. I mean … yes. I am.” She smiled.
“Do you get what we’re supposed to do for the homework? The cell diagram thing?” He blinked.
“Sort of. It’s… labelling and functions, I think. Like, nucleus, cytoplasm, all that.”She tilted her head.
“You always seem to know what’s going on.” He laughed; too loud, too quick.
“Not really. I just write fast.” She leaned slightly closer.
“Well, maybe you could help me with it? At lunch?” His throat tightened.
“Lunch?” “Yeah. If you’re free.” He nodded. “Sure. That’d be… yeah. Okay.” She smiled again.
“Cool. I’ll find you in the library?”
“Library. Right. Yeah.” She turned and walked away, blazer swaying, shoes clicking softly on the linoleum. He stared at the noticeboard, heart thudding, folder still clutched in both hands. The exam schedule blurred. His tie felt looser now. Or maybe he was just breathing again.

He stirred his tea with slow precision. The spoon clinked against the porcelain, rhythmic, deliberate. Outside, the garden was quiet; neatly trimmed hedges, roses in bloom, the lawn clipped to regulation perfection. A robin perched on the fence, watching. He winked at it. The newspaper lay folded beside his plate. Headlines screamed about the investigation; another appeal for witnesses, another theory. He didn’t read it. He already knew how it ended. He took a sip. Earl Grey. Just the right temperature. The toast popped. He didn’t flinch. He buttered it with care, spreading from corner to corner, no crumbs, no waste. The knife gleamed in the morning light. He liked mornings. They were clean. The doorbell rang. He didn’t rush. He wiped his hands, adjusted his cuffs, and walked to the door with the calm of someone who’d never had anything to hide. The constable stood there, young, polite, eyes uncertain.
“Just checking in, sir. Routine follow-up.” He smiled.
“Of course. Come in.” The constable stepped inside, glancing around.
“Lovely place.”
“Thank you. I do try.” They sat in the conservatory. He poured tea. The constable asked questions; soft ones, rehearsed. He answered with ease. Dates, times, names. All correct. All clean. The constable nodded, scribbled, sipped.
“Terrible business,” he said.
“Awful,” he agreed. A pause. The constable looked up.
“You knew her, didn’t you?” He nodded.
“Briefly. She was… spirited.” Another pause.
“She mentioned you once.” He smiled.
“Did she?” The constable hesitated.
“Said you were clever.” He laughed.
“I suppose I am.” The constable finished his tea, thanked him, and left. He watched him go, then returned to the kitchen. The robin was still there. He tossed it a crumb. Back inside, he opened the drawer beneath the sink. Inside, a box. Locked. He ran his fingers over the lid, then closed the drawer again. He sat at the table, picked up the newspaper, and read the headline aloud.
“Still no leads.”
He smiled.