The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound drowned in the thick, milk-like fog that clung to the house from every side. It sprawled across the garden, tangled in the branches of the apple trees, slid down the slate roof, and seeped through the cracks in the windows, turning the world beyond the glass into a shifting, unreal blur. The wind seemed to avoid this place, as if sensing it was wiser not to linger. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters disturbed the heavy silence, a reminder that the house still breathed.
Eleanor sat by the fireplace, clutching a cup of cold tea, her fingers trembling slightlywhether from the chill or anticipation, she couldnt say. 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 just knewthe way you know snow will fall when the air turns sharp, the stars too bright, the silence too thick.
The house was old, always creakingfloorboards, beams, window frames. But tonight, the sounds were different: muffled, drawn-out, like cautious footsteps on damp earth just beyond the walls, pausing now and then to listen. Eleanor told herself it was her imagination, but each creak brought him closerthe one she both feared and longed for.
Three years ago, this house had been full of life. Lively debates, laughter, doors slamming, the kettle whistling over the radio someone always turned up too loud. 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 swallowed every room, seeping into the walls, the floors, the old photographs. Only she remained. And the memories, heavy or warm, with nowhere else to go.
Eleanor closed her eyes and heard his voice againlow, rough, as if carried from a distance. *»Ill return. But dont wait for me by day.»* Shed asked why. Hed tilted his head, smiled faintly, and said, *»Because by day, I wont be here.»*
A knock. One, quicktesting if she was home. Then another, louder, more insistent. Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of her own heart. Eleanor rose, set the cup on the mantel, and studied the dying embers before turning toward the door. Each step made the floor groan, the sound echoing in her chest. The handle was icy, slightly dampas if already touched. She turned it with effort.
A man stood on the threshold. A grey trench coat clung to his frame, droplets clinging to the shoulders as though hed walked through relentless rain. His face was hidden under the brim of his hat, but his lipspale, tinged with bluewere just visible.
«You came,» Eleanor said, her voice softer than shed intended.
He nodded and stepped inside, bringing the chill with him. His presence filled the room, pressing against the walls, thickening the air.
«I knew youd be waiting,» he murmured, each word settling like dust. «You always wait.»
Eleanor didnt answer. Her eyes dropped to his handslong, slender, skin unnaturally pale, as if starved of sunlight. They were still, yet there was something unsettling in that stillness, as if they remembered gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises that lingered, dark and tender.
«Why are you here?» she finally asked, her voice betraying her.
«You already know.»
He stepped forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The fire flared without fresh logs, casting writhing shadows. For a moment, Eleanor thought she saw figures moving just beyond sight.
«I thought Id have more time,» she whispered, refusing to look away.
«Theres never enough,» he replied, neither accusatory nor comfortingjust fact.
They sat by the fire for hours, its glow flickering in his unblinking eyes. He spoke of places where no light reached, yet the sound of water soothed more than silence ever could. Of those hed taken and those whod gone willingly, as if sensing his approach. When he paused, the only sounds were the crackling logs and the unseen waves of fog rolling against the house.
His voice was gentle, almost hypnotic, and Eleanor realized she wasnt afraid. If anything, she wanted to hear morelike a story whose ending was inevitable.
«Are you ready?» he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Eleanor glanced around the roomthe cup on the mantel, the armchair with its sunken cushion, the tarnished silver frame holding a faded photo. Everything was as it had been three years ago, as if time had stopped here. Only she had changed.
«Yes,» she said, her voice steady.
He stood and offered his hand. She took it. Cold as ice, but not sharpsoothing, almost, as if fear could be left behind by the hearth.
When morning came and no smoke rose from the chimney, the villagers assumed Eleanor had gone away. The door was locked, the windows shuttered, the silence inside unnaturally deep. In the fireplace, the last embers faded, the ashes barely warm.
Only two cups remained on the tableone empty, a faint lipstick mark on its rim, the other still half-full, a wisp of steam curling upward, almost invisible.
