Margen
It stayed plugged in beside the bed, its small green eye alight, feeding no one.
It is the last thing shining in the house when everything goes dark: the lighthouse of a harbour no boat comes home to.
By day, nobody sees it. By night it sets its little light upon the nightstand, punctual as a clerk who never heard the company closed down.
Nobody unplugs it. To unplug it would be to admit that the phone that slept here now charges on another wall, drinks from another current, wakes up in another house.