The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, milky fog clinging to the house from every side. It sprawled across the garden, tangled in the apple tree branches, slid down the slate roof, and seeped through the window cracks, turning the world beyond the glass into a blurred, unreal haze. The wind seemed to skirt this place, as if sensing it was best not to linger. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters broke the heavy silence, a faint reminder that the house still breathed.
Emily sat by the fireplace, fingers trembling slightly around her cup of cold teawhether from the chill or anticipation, she couldnt tell. Her gaze never left the door, as though sheer will could hasten the moment. She knew he would come tonight.
Not because of any promise. Not because of letters or calls. She just knewthe way you know snow will fall when the air turns crisp and the stars burn too brightly against the hush of night.
The house was old, always sighingfloorboards groaning, beams settling, windowsills whispering. But tonight, the sounds were different: muffled, drawn-out, like careful footsteps pacing just beyond the walls, pausing now and then to listen. Emily told herself it was her imagination, yet each new creak brought him closerthe one she both longed for and dreaded.
Three years ago, this house had been alive. Laughter echoed through the halls, doors slammed, the kettle whistled over the blare of the radio. The scent of fresh bread and pipe smoke drifted from room to room; outside, a football thumped against the garden fence, and spoons clattered in the kitchen. Then, one by one, they leftsome by choice, others by fate. Silence swallowed every corner, seeping into the walls, the floors, the fading photographs. Only Emily remained. And the memories, too heavy to carry, too warm to forget.
She closed her eyes and heard his voice againlow, rough-edged, as if carried from afar. *»Ill return. But dont wait for me by daylight.»* Shed asked why, and hed tilted his head, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. *»Because by day, I wont be here.»*
A knock. One sharp rap, testing. Then anotherlouder, insistent. Silence followed, thick enough to hear her own heartbeat. Emily rose, set the cup on the mantel, and stared at the dying embers before turning toward the door. Each step sent a shudder through the old floorboards. The handle was ice-cold, dampas if already touched. She twisted it.
A man stood on the threshold. His grey trench coat glistened with moisture, as though hed walked through a storm no one else could see. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but his lips were visiblepale, tinged with blue, unsmiling.
«You came,» Emily said, her voice quieter than shed intended.
He nodded and stepped inside, neither removing his hat nor wiping his shoes, as though he carried the cold with him. His presence pressed against the room, the walls yielding, the air turning dense.
«I knew youd wait,» he murmured, each word seeping into the silence. «You always do.»
Emily didnt answer. Her eyes dropped to his handslong, slender, the skin unnaturally pale, like someone whod spent years without sunlight. They were still, yet there was something unsettling in their stillness, as if they remembered gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, dark and feverish to the touch.
«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 new wood, shadows stretching across the walls. For a moment, Emily thought she heard faint footsteps behind themsoft, almost imagined.
«I thought Id have more time,» she whispered, refusing to look away.
«Theres never enough,» he replied, neither gentle nor cruel. Just truth.
They sat by the fire for what felt like hours, the flames flickering in his motionless eyes. He spoke of places untouched by light, where the sound of water soothed deeper than silence. Of those hed taken and those whod gone willingly, sensing his approach. When he paused, Emily heard only the crackle of the fire and the distant roll of fog beyond the walls.
His voice was calm, almost hypnotic, and to her surprise, she felt no fearonly a pull, the need to hear the end of a story whose conclusion was already written.
«Are you ready?» he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Emily glanced around the roomthe cup on the mantel, the armchair with its sunken cushion, the tarnished silver frame holding a fading photograph. All untouched by time. Only she had changed.
«Yes,» she said, her voice steady.
He stood, offering his hand. She took it. Cold, but not bitingsoothing, almost, as if fear could be left behind with the embers.
When dawn came and no smoke curled from the chimney, the village assumed Emily had gone away. The door was locked, the windows shuttered tight. Inside, the silence was absolute. The fire had burned to ash, the last warmth clinging to the hearth.
Only two cups remained on the tableone empty, a faint lipstick stain on its rim; the other half-full, a wisp of steam still rising.
