**The Last Guest**
The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, milky fog pressing against the house from all sides. It clung to the apple trees in the garden, slid down the slate roof, and seeped through the window cracks, making the world beyond the glass waver like a mirage. The wind seemed to avoid this place, as if sensing it was unwelcome. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters broke the heavy silence, a reminder that the house still breathed.
Eleanor sat by the fireplace, cradling a cup of cold tea, her fingers trembling slightly from the chillor perhaps the wait. Her gaze never left the door, as if sheer will could hasten the moment. She knew he would come today.
Not because anyone had promised. Not because of letters or calls. She simply knewthe way you know snow will fall when the air turns crisp, the stars too bright, the quiet too thick.
The old house always groanedfloorboards, beams, windowsills. But tonight, the sounds were different: muffled, drawn-out, like careful footsteps on damp earth just beyond the walls, pausing now and then to listen. Eleanor told herself it was imagination, yet each creak brought him closerthe thing she both dreaded and longed for.
Three years ago, this house had been alivelaughter, arguments, doors slamming, the kettle whistling over the radios blare. The scent of fresh bread and pipe smoke lingered in the halls, a football thudded in the garden, and spoons clattered in the kitchen. Then, one by one, they leftsome moved away, others passed on. Silence filled every room, seeped into the walls, the floors, the faded photographs. Only Eleanor remained, with memories too heavy to carry, yet too warm to discard.
She closed her eyes and heard his voice againlow, faintly hoarse, as if carried from a distance. *Ill return. But dont wait for me by day.* Shed asked why. Hed tilted his head, smirked, and said, *Because by day, I wont be here.*
A knock. One, brief, testing. Then anotherlouder, insistent. Silence followed, broken only by the hammering of her heart. Eleanor stood, set the cup on the mantel, and studied the dying embers before walking to the door. Each step echoed in her chest. The handle was icy, dampas if already touched. She turned it.
A man stood on the threshold, wrapped in a grey coat, droplets glistening on his shoulders like hed walked through endless rain. His face was shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but his lips were visiblepale, tinged with blue, unsmiling.
You came, Eleanor said, her voice softer than shed intended.
He nodded and stepped inside, bringing the cold with him. His presence made the walls shrink, the air denser.
I knew youd wait, he murmured, each word sinking into the room. You always do.
Eleanor didnt reply. Her eyes dropped to his handslong, slender, too pale, as if untouched by sunlight. They were still, yet something restless lurked beneath, as if they remembered gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.
Why are you here? she asked, her voice betraying her.
You know.
He stepped forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The fire flared though shed added no wood. Shadows slithered up the walls, and for a moment, she thought she heard whispers behind them.
I thought Id have more time, she whispered.
Theres never enough, he repliedno pity, no blame, just truth.
They sat by the fire for hours, its glow flickering in his unblinking eyes. He spoke of places without light, where water lapped ceaselessly, a sound more soothing than silence. Of those hed taken and those whod gone willingly, sensing his approach. When he paused, the crackling logs and the winds sighs filled the gaps.
His voice held no threatif anything, it lulled her, pulling her deeper into his tale, though she knew its ending.
Are you ready? he asked, leaning forward.
Eleanor looked aroundthe cup on the mantel, the worn armchair, the tarnished silver frame. All unchanged, as if time had stopped here. Only she had moved on.
Yes, she said, steady at last.
He stood, offered his hand. She took it. Coldbut not biting, more like a promise that fear could stay behind, fading with the embers.
When morning came and no smoke curled from the chimney, the village assumed Eleanor had left. The door was locked, the windows shuttered. Inside, the silence was absolute. Only two cups remained on the tableone empty, a faint lipstick stain on its rim, the other half-full, a ghost of steam still rising.
**Lesson learned:** Some waits are inevitable, but not all who come in the night are unwelcome. Sometimes, the guest we fear is the one weve been longing for.
