The clock in the hall struck three, but the sound drowned in the thick, milk-like fog that wrapped the house on all sides. It lay heavy in the garden, clung to the apple trees, slid down the slate roof, and seeped through the window cracks, making the world beyond the glass shimmer like a mirage. The wind seemed to avoid this place, as if sensing it was better not to linger. Only the occasional dry creak of the shutters disturbed the sticky 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 tell. Her gaze stayed fixed on the door, as if she could will the moment closer. She knew he would come today.
Not because anyone had promised. Not because of letters or calls. She just knewthe way one knows snow will fall when the air turns crisp, the stars too bright, the silence too heavy.
The house was old, always creakingfloorboards, beams, window frames. But tonight, the sounds were different: muffled, drawn-out, like cautious footsteps in damp earth just beyond the walls, pausing now and then to listen. Eleanor told herself it was imagination, yet each creak brought him nearerthe one she both waited for and feared.
Three years ago, this house had been full of life. Laughter, arguments, doors slamming, the kettle whistling over the too-loud radio. The scent of fresh bread and pipe smoke lingered in the halls, a football thudded in the garden, and someone was always dropping spoons in the kitchen. Then, one by one, they leftsome moved away, some passed on. Silence seeped into every room, soaked into the walls, the floors, the old photographs. Only Eleanor remained. And the memories, heavy or sweet, with nowhere else to go.
Eleanor closed her eyes and heard his voice againlow, slightly rough, as if carried from afar. Hed told her then, “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, brief, testing. Then anotherlouder, insistent. Silence followed, broken only by the pounding of her own heart. Eleanor rose, set her cup on the mantel, and stared at the dying embers before walking to the door. Each step echoed in her chest. The handle was icy, slightly damp, as if touched already. She turned it with effort.
A man stood on the threshold. A grey overcoat, droplets on his shoulders as if hed walked through relentless rain or fog. His face was hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, but his lipspale, tinged with blue, unsmilingstood out in the shadow.
“You came,” Eleanor said, her voice softer than shed intended.
He nodded and stepped inside. He didnt remove his hat or wipe his shoes, as if bringing the chill with him. His presence filled the room, pressing the walls back, thickening the air.
“I knew youd wait,” he said, quiet yet each word sinking into the silence. “You always do.”
Eleanor didnt reply. Her eyes fell to his handslong, slender, 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.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice betraying her.
“You already know.”
He stepped forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The fire flared brighter though shed added no wood. Shadows stretched along the walls, and for a moment, Eleanor thought she heard faint footsteps behind them.
“I thought Id have more time,” she whispered, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
“Theres never enough,” he replied, neither blaming 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, yet filled with the soothing sound of water; of those hed taken and those whod gone willingly, sensing his approach. Sometimes he paused, and in those silences, Eleanor heard only the crackling logs and the wind rolling unseen waves through the fog outside.
His voice was gentle, unhurried, and to her surprise, she felt no fear. If anything, it drew her in, like a story one must hear to the end, knowing the conclusion is inevitable.
“Are you ready?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
Eleanor looked around. The cup on the mantel, the worn armchair with its sunken cushion, the tarnished silver frame holding a faded photograph. 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, offering his hand. She took it. Cold as icebut not biting, just numbing, as if fear could be left behind by the fire.
When morning came and no smoke rose from the chimney, the village assumed Eleanor had left. The door was locked, the windows shuttered, the silence inside heavier than before. The fire had burned to ash, the last embers barely warm.
Only two cups remained on the table: one empty, a faint lipstick stain on its rim; the other half-full, a ghost of steam still rising.
Sometimes, the things we wait for come not to take, but to free us from the waiting itself.
