The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, milk-like fog enveloping the house from all sides. It lay heavy in the garden, clung to the branches of apple trees, dripped down the slate roof, and seeped through the cracks in the windows, making the world beyond the glass shimmer and fade. The wind seemed to avoid this place, as if it too sensed it was better not to linger. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters disturbed the thick silence, a reminder that the house still breathed.
Emily sat by the fireplace, clutching a cup of cold tea, her fingers trembling slightly from the chillor perhaps from anticipation. Her gaze never left the door, as if she could will the moment closer. She knew he would come tonight.
Not because anyone had promised. Not because of letters or calls. She simply knewjust as one knows snow will fall when the air turns crisp, the stars too bright, and the silence too heavy.
The house was old, always creakingfloorboards, beams, window frames. But tonight, the sounds were different: muffled, drawn out, as if someone were treading carefully on damp earth just beyond the walls, pausing now and then to listen. Emily told herself it was her imagination, yet each new creak brought him nearer, the one she both awaited and dreaded.
Three years ago, this house had been full of life. Laughter, arguments, slamming doors, the kettle always whistling over the radio someone had turned up too loud. The smell of fresh baking and pipe smoke lingered in the halls, a football thumped in the garden, and spoons clattered in the kitchen. Then, one by one, they leftsome moved away, others passed on. Silence seeped into every room, soaked into the walls, the floors, the old photographs. Only Emily remained. And the memories, inescapable, whether they weighed her down or warmed her.
Emily closed her eyes and heard his voice againhollow, with a faint rasp, as if carried from afar. He had told her then, «Ill return. But dont wait for me by day.» She had asked why. He tilted his head slightly, smiled at the corner of his lips, and said, «Because by day, I wont be here.»
A knock. One, brief, as if testing whether she was home. Then anotherlouder, more insistent. Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of her own heart. Emily rose, set the cup on the mantel, glanced at the cold embers, and walked slowly to the door. Each step on the creaking floorboards echoed in her chest. The handle was icy, dampas if already touched. She turned it with effort.
A man stood on the threshold. In a grey overcoat, droplets glistening on his shoulders as if hed walked through lingering rain or fog. His face was shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, but his lips were visiblepale, tinged with blue, unsmiling.
«You came,» Emily said, her voice softer than she intended.
He nodded and stepped inside, not removing his hat, not wiping his boots, as if bringing the cold with him. His presence filled the room, pressing the walls back, thickening the air.
«I knew youd be waiting,» he murmured, his words sinking into the silence. «You always wait.»
Emily didnt answer. Her eyes fell to his handslong, slender, the skin unnaturally pale, like someone who hadnt seen sunlight in years. His fingers were still, yet their stillness unsettled her, as if they remembered gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, dark and fevered to the touch.
«Why are you here?» she finally asked, her voice wavering.
«You already know.»
He took a step forward, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight. The fire flared, though she hadnt added wood. Shadows stretched along the walls, and for a moment, Emily imagined she heard faint footsteps behind them.
«I thought Id have more time,» she whispered, refusing to look away.
«Theres never enough,» he replied, his tone neither accusing nor comfortingjust truth.
They sat by the fire a long while, its flickering glow reflected in his motionless eyes. He spoke of places where no light reached, yet the sound of lapping water soothed more than silence ever could. Of those hed taken, and those who had gone willingly, as if sensing his approach. Sometimes he paused, and in those quiet moments, Emily heard only the crackling logs and the unseen wind rolling waves through the fog outside.
His voice was gentle, carrying no threat, and Emily realized she wasnt afraid. If anything, his words drew her in, making her want to hear the end, like a story whose conclusion was inevitable.
«Are you ready?» he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Emily looked around the room. The cup on the mantel, the old armchair with its sunken cushion, the tarnished silver frame holding a faded photograph. All of it unchanged, as if time had stopped here. Only she had moved on.
«Yes,» she said, her voice steady.
He stood, offered his hand. She took it. Cold as ice, but not bitingsoothing, almost, as if promising she could leave her fears behind by the fire.
When morning came and no smoke rose from the chimney, the villagers assumed Emily had left. The door was locked, the windows tightly curtained. Inside, the silence was absolute. Only the embers in the hearth still glowed faintly, a thin line of ash holding the last warmth.
Two cups sat on the tableone empty, with the faint imprint of lips on the rim, the other half-full, a wisp of steam still rising.
In the end, we all must face what weve waited for, whether with fear or quiet resolve. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again.
