The story that ends on a red sofa

The sofa was soft, as if it remembered every back that had ever rested upon it. But she was no longer sitting. She rested her head on her left hand, holding a blade in her right, the way a child clings to a mother’s arm.
Outside, nothing could be heard, and yet something cold kept tightening along her spine. The owl stood by the wall large and still, asking no questions. It was neither afraid nor curious; it simply knew. An owl always knows when a person can no longer move forward, and nothing is left behind them either.
The telephone, which never rings, stood on the left. Time passed without it without sound, without words, without explanation.
In the silence, she exhaled, as if placing the final punctuation upon herself. On the red sofa, a woman was no longer lying there… what remained was a story no one wished to finish, and for that very reason… she ended it herself.