Harry Hollow woke up in his little bungalow on Willow Street, his wife’s warm body curled around his side like a question mark, and he thought, Something’s wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was like the feeling you get when an old, beloved book is missing from the shelf, but you can’t recall which one.

Outside, the sky was a soft, dappled watercolor of early morning light, the kind of day that smelled of fresh-cut grass and warm pavement. For a moment, Harry almost forgot his strange intuition. He slipped into his slippers, felt the cool floorboards underfoot, and wandered into the bathroom.

That’s when he saw it: he was empty.

Not metaphorically empty, the way a man might feel after a long day of soul-crushing work. No, this was a literal, physical emptiness. Harry pulled up his pajama shirt and stared into the hollow space where his chest should have been. There was nothing. No ribs, no lungs, no heart. Just a dark, cavernous gap that yawned back at him like the entrance to a forgotten cave.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, poking a finger into the void. It slid in without resistance, as if his body were nothing but a rubbery shell. He felt…nothing. No pain, no pressure, not even a tickle. He was a human glove with no hand inside.
Downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. Betty, his wife, was standing at the counter, her yellow bathrobe bright against the morning light.

“You look pale, Harry,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee his way. “Did you get enough sleep?”
“I feel… strange,” he said. “Light. Like I’m missing something.”

Betty laughed, that warm, familiar laugh of hers that reminded him of a summer picnic long ago. “We’re all missing something, Harry,” she said. “That’s just part of life.”

Harry lifted his shirt, revealing the emptiness to her.

Betty blinked at the sight and then, strangely, she didn’t look surprised. If anything, she seemed almost relieved, like she’d been waiting for this moment for years. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You finally noticed.”

At the doctor’s office, the X-ray machine hummed and clicked, its sounds filling the room like the mutterings of an old man. Dr. Barren, whose mustache looked like it had been glued on in a hurry, held up the film to the light.

“Well, this is a first,” he said, squinting at the X-ray. “There’s nothing there, Harry. No organs at all.”
Harry nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

Dr. Barren scratched his head. “But you’re standing here, talking to me. How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I just feel… hollow.”

Dr. Barren filed the X-ray under “Unsolved Mysteries,” patted Harry on the back, and said with a chuckle, “You’re not the first, you know. Most folks don’t realize they’re hollow until much later in life. Consider yourself lucky, I suppose.”

Harry wandered to the park, feeling a lightness with each step, as though the wind might pick him up and carry him off. He sat down next to Old Tom, the town’s resident philosopher, who was tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons.
“What’s got you looking so glum?” Tom asked, squinting up at the sky.

“I found out I’m empty,” Harry said. “No heart, no lungs, nothing. Just a hollow shell.”
Tom chuckled, a dry, knowing laugh. “Join the club, Harry,” he said, tossing a crumb to a particularly fat pigeon. “We’re all hollow in one way or another. Some folks just wear their emptiness better than others.”

“But I don’t feel sick,” Harry said. “Shouldn’t I be dead?”
“Who says you need organs to live?” Tom replied, winking. “Maybe you’re lighter without all that baggage. Ever think of it that way?”
Harry thought about that as he watched the pigeons flutter away, their wings beating the air like the turning of unseen pages.
In the weeks that followed, Harry grew to enjoy his condition. He didn’t need to eat, didn’t feel out of breath on the stairs. He could float through his days without the weight of a churning stomach or a pounding heart. He became a man free of burdens, like a kite cut from its string.

One day, he found himself at the pier, looking out at the waves rolling in. He felt the pull of the sea, like it was calling to the emptiness inside him. He stepped forward, the water lapping at his shoes, then his knees, then his waist. He walked deeper until the sea was cradling him like a child.

Harry floated there, feeling lighter than air, lighter than the water itself. He could feel the breeze whistling through the hollow space in his chest, playing a sweet, haunting tune that only he could hear. And as he drifted further out, a smile spread across his lips.
For the first time in his life, Harry felt full—not of organs, not of the messy stuff of life, but of the vast, soothing nothingness that holds up the stars and cradles the tides.

The years passed, and Harry Hollow became something of a local legend. People would speak of him in hushed tones, as if he were a myth or a ghost, something that couldn’t possibly exist in the rational daylight world. One autumn evening, Betty returned to the pier, clutching Harry’s favorite hat in her hands. The sun was setting, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple.
She looked out at the sea, her face serene but tinged with a wistful sadness. The sound of Harry’s haunting whistle floated on the breeze. For a moment, she could almost feel his arms around her.

Out of the mist, a shadowy figure began to form, rippling on the surface like a mirage. It was Harry, standing there as if he’d never left. He looked at her with eyes that were both familiar and otherworldly, the emptiness inside him now glowing with a soft, silvery light.
“Betty,” he said, his voice the whisper of the tide. “I’m not gone.”
Betty nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“I’ve never felt more complete.” He said.
With that, the mist began to swirl around him, pulling him back into the sea. The water rippled as he faded, and the last thing she saw was the light in his chest, a tiny star sinking into the depths.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the wind picked up again, playing that sweet, hollow tune. It wasn’t a sad sound, not anymore. It was a song of contentment, of a man who had finally found his place in the great, unknowable rhythm of the world.
And every so often, when the fog rolls in thick and the pier is deserted, you might hear it—the distant, lilting whistle of Harry Hollow, the man who discovered that the emptiest places are sometimes the fullest of all. It’s the sound of the space between breaths, the silence before a wave breaks, the music of everything we cannot see but know is there.

A song of peace. A song of home.