The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound was swallowed by the thick, milky fog clinging to the house from all sides. It lay heavy in the garden, tangled in the branches of the apple trees, slid down the slate roof, and seeped through the cracks in the windows, making the world beyond the glass shimmer like a mirage. The wind seemed to avoid this place, as if it, too, sensed something amiss. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters disturbed the thick silence, a reminder that the house still breathed.
Eleanor sat by the fireplace, her fingers trembling slightly around a cup of cold tea. Her eyes never left the door, as though she could will the moment closer. She knew he would come tonight.
Not because of any promise. 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 old house always creakedfloorboards, beams, window framesbut 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, yet each new groan of the wood brought him nearer, the one she both awaited and dreaded.
Three years ago, this house had been full of life. Laughter, arguments, doors slamming, the constant whistle of the kettle drowning out the radio someone always left too loud. The scent of fresh bread 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 settled into every room, soaked into the walls, the floors, the old photographs. Only Eleanor remained. And the memories, inescapable, no matter how heavy or warm.
Eleanor closed her eyes and heard his voice againlow, husky, as though carried from a distance. He had told her then, “Ill return. But dont wait for me by day.” She had asked why. He tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Because by daylight, I wont be here.”
A knock. One short, testing tap. Then anotherlouder, firmer. Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of her own heart. Eleanor stood, set her cup on the mantel, and stared at the cold embers before walking to the door. Each step made the floorboards groan. The handle was icy, damp, as if already touched. She turned it with effort.
A man stood on the threshold, wrapped in a grey coat, droplets clinging to his shoulders as though hed walked through a downpouror the fog itself. His face was hidden 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 chill with him. His presence filled the room, pushing the walls back, thickening the air.
“I knew youd be waiting,” he murmured, his words sinking into the silence. “You always wait.”
Eleanor didnt answer. Her gaze dropped to his handslong, slender, the skin unnaturally pale, as though untouched by sunlight. Motionless, yet they carried a quiet menace, as if they remembered gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises that burned for weeks.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice betraying a tremor.
“You already know.”
He took a step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The fire flared without fresh wood, shadows stretching along the walls. For a moment, Eleanor couldve sworn other figures moved just beyond sight.
“I thought Id have more time,” she whispered.
“Theres never enough,” he replied, neither accusing nor comfortingjust stating a fact.
They sat by the fire for what felt like hours, the flames flickering in his motionless eyes. He spoke of places without light, where the sound of lapping water soothed better than silence. Of those hed taken and those whod gone willingly, as though sensing his approach. Sometimes he paused, and in those gaps, Eleanor heard only the crackling logs and the unseen tide of fog outside.
His voice held no threat, and strangely, she wasnt afraid. If anything, it drew her in, like a story one must hear to the end, no matter how it concludes.
“Are you ready?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Eleanor looked around. The cup on the mantel, the armchair with its sunken cushion, the photograph in its tarnished silver frameall untouched by time. Only she had changed.
“Yes,” she said, her voice steady.
He rose, offered his hand. She took it. Cold as ice, but not bitingalmost lulling, as if promising she could leave her fear behind by the fire.
When the villagers noticed no smoke from the chimney the next morning, they assumed Eleanor had gone away. The door was locked, the key missing, the curtains still drawn tight. The silence inside was absolute. The fire had burned down to ash, the last embers barely warm.
Only two cups remained on the tableone empty, a faint lipstick stain on the rim, the other half-full, a wisp of steam still rising.
