Time crawled by painfully slow. Every day felt like a wound that refused to heal. The house had become a prison, heavy with memories of better days and worse ones. Every creak of the floorboards, every moan of the beams above, reminded Leila of her once-happy childhood, the terror that shattered it, and the grief that followed her mother's death. Her thoughts circled endlessly, pulling her deeper into the past.
But on the outside, Leila was calm. Too calm. Her face showed no emotion. Her movements were quiet and precise, as if she were simply going through the motions. Anyone watching her might've thought nothing had happened at all. But inside, everything was falling apart.
The only other person in the house was Mrs. Smith, the old housekeeper who had served them for years. Leila had tried several times to send her away, but the woman refused. She stayed, stubborn as ever, watching over her like a protective shadow.
Mrs. Smith followed her around like a worried mother, always hovering, always checking on her. It was suffocating at times but Leila knew it came from care, not control.
Mr. Rodrick, her employer at the apothecary, had kindly given her time off to mourn. But being at home all day only made things worse. The silence, the stillness, it left too much room for thinking. She wanted to return to work, to distract herself. But Mr. Rodrick wouldn't hear of it. So she stayed, counting the days, wishing they would pass faster.
Now and then, Margaret came by to check on her. Her visits brought brief moments of relief. But once she left, the heavy silence always returned.
That afternoon, Leila sat at the table, lightly tapping her fingers against the wood. She watched as Mrs. Smith moved around the room with a duster in hand. The house was quiet... too quiet. No shouting. No drunken singing. No chaos. It didn't feel right.
She was restless. Bored. She hated sitting around, doing nothing. Just a few more days, she told herself. Then she'd go back to work and things would feel normal again.
Suddenly, someone pounded on the front door, loud and aggressive.
A man's voice roared from outside.
"Rosaline! I know you're in there! Come out and give me my money back!"
Leila's brows pulled together. What now? She looked at Mrs. Smith, who froze mid-dust, fear flashing in her eyes. They exchanged a glance.
With a sigh, Leila stood up. "I'll deal with it."
She opened the door and stared into the face of a man she'd hoped never to see again. Middle-aged, rough-skinned, red-eyed from drink. One of her mother's old lovers. Always stinking of liquor. Useless then, just as he was now.
He'd spat at her last time. She hadn't forgotten.
Three metaphorical lines of irritation formed on her forehead.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coolly.
"Where's Rosaline?" he slurred, swaying on his feet.
"She's not here." Her voice was cold, flat.
Had he not heard the news? Or was he too drunk to care?
"She stole from me! I want my money back!" he shouted, growing more agitated.
"She's gone," Leila snapped, losing patience. "Dead."
She remembered the bag of coins her mother had counted after he left last time. Of course. Her mother must have stolen from him. Why was she not surprised?
"Dead? No! She's hiding from me!" he yelled, then suddenly shoved past her and stormed into the house.
"Where are you, you lying thief?! Think I wouldn't come back for it?!"
He made straight for Rosaline's room and grabbed the handle but the door was locked.
"Why's this locked?!" he banged on it, furious. "Open up! You won't get away with it this time!"
Mrs. Smith stood frozen near the wall, hand over her chest in shock. Leila stared at the man with quiet contempt.
She stepped beside Mrs. Smith and whispered something in her ear. The old woman nodded and hurried away, leaving Leila alone with the drunk.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, brat!" he barked.
Leila didn't flinch. "Watch your mouth," she said evenly. "Unless you'd like to limp home."
Something in her voice made the man pause. Her tone was calm, but sharp, dangerous.
"You little..." he began, but stopped when Mrs. Smith returned, holding a small pouch. She handed it to Leila.
Without a word, Leila tossed the pouch at him. He caught it clumsily.
"There. Take it. Now leave."
His pride stung, the man hesitated. He stepped forward, as if to threaten her. But when his gaze met hers, he stopped.
Her eyes weren't afraid. They burned with something cold and fierce, something unshaken. There was a strange intensity in her stare that made his stomach twist.
He stepped back.
"I won't walk you out," she said with a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And I hope I never see your face again."
"What are you smiling at?!" he snapped, trying to save face. But the truth was, he couldn't get out of there fast enough. He turned and stumbled away, muttering curses under his breath.
Leila watched the door close behind him, her face returning to its usual blank calm.
Mrs. Smith broke the silence.
"What would you like to eat today, my lady?"
Leila stood. "Margaret invited me for dinner. Just make your portion."
And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the stillness of the house once more.
On her way to her room, she stopped by Rosaline's room. Why did she keep causing her trouble when she was no longer around?
"Miss Leila?"
Turning around, she saw Mrs Smith standing a short distance away, looking worriedly at her. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she assured her before proceeding to go to her room.
As Leila walked past the broken Victorian mirror, her shattered reflection stared back at her. Each jagged piece seemed to reflect a part of her tired and broken self. Her room was simple... a closet, a small dressing table, and a neatly made bed in the corner. Everything was tidy and in its place, unlike the chaos she felt inside.
The windows were open, letting in a cool breeze that fluttered the curtains. She stood in front of the window, looking out quietly. The rain that had poured endlessly for days had finally stopped, but the sky was still grey. Dark clouds hovered above, hinting that more rain might come. The heavy air seemed to match the storm building inside her.
Her gaze drifted downward. The house wasn't tall, but the fall from her window could still do serious damage… maybe worse.
A cruel voice whispered in her mind.
"She's dead now. That old witch is gone. Why are you still holding on? Just jump. End it."
Without reacting, Leila shut the window and pulled the curtains closed. Her face remained blank.
***
That evening, she arrived at Margaret's house. The warm glow from inside and the cheerful noise made it feel like another world.
Margaret opened the door, her eyes lighting up. "You really came! I thought you'd change your mind!"
"Well, here I am," Leila said with a small shrug.
"My mother made your favorite—roasted duck! Wait till you try it!" Margaret smiled brightly as she led her inside.
The dining room was already full of life. Margaret's family sat around the table: her kind parents, her older brother George, and little six-year-old Brenda, who was already bouncing in her seat with excitement.
The moment Brenda saw Leila, she jumped up and ran toward her.
"Leila's here!"
Leila bent down and caught her in a warm hug, laughing as Brenda giggled in her arms. The child had always been fond of her. After setting her down, Leila greeted Mr. and Mrs. Healey politely and took a seat.
"How are you doing, dear?" Mrs. Healey asked softly, her eyes full of motherly concern.
"I'm fine," Leila replied with a small smile. It wasn't the full truth, but it was easier than explaining everything.
Soon, dinner was served. The smell of roasted duck filled the air, along with fresh bread and savory pies. Colorful vegetables and warm desserts decorated the table, making it look like something out of a holiday painting.
The room was filled with laughter and light conversation. They talked about the neighbors, the upcoming fair, and small town gossip. It was lively and warm—a sharp contrast to Leila's quiet home. She let herself enjoy the peace, even if just for one evening.
She noticed, more than once, that George kept glancing her way. Every time their eyes met, he quickly looked away, slightly red in the face. It was… odd. Sweet, even. But she didn't think too much about it. For now, she just wanted to enjoy this rare moment of calm.
Dinner ended on a cheerful note. Margaret, full of energy as always, pulled Leila into her room to chat about everything and nothing. Leila didn't mind. She knew Margaret was just trying to make her feel better—and for the first time in days, she did feel a little lighter.
Eventually, Leila glanced out the window and realized how dark it had gotten.
"It's late. I should head home," she said, standing up.
Margaret pouted. "Why don't you just stay over? Please?"
Leila smiled a little at her friend's pleading expression.
"I didn't tell Mrs. Smith I'd be gone for the night. She'll worry if I don't come home," she replied gently.
They hugged goodbye, and Margaret's parents gave her kind words before she left. As she walked away, she could still feel the warmth of the Healey family behind her.
Outside, the wind had picked up. It howled through the bare trees, carrying a sharp chill that stung her skin. The sky was a heavy gray, thick clouds blocking out the moon. Everything felt quiet… too quiet.
Earlier rain had left the ground muddy and slippery. Each step squished beneath her shoes, cold and wet, but she barely noticed. Her mind was too full, her chest too heavy.
She didn't head straight home.
Instead, her feet wandered. The cold air bit at her face, but she kept walking. The silence, the emptiness of the streets it felt better than going back to that still, suffocating house.
Time slipped by. Minutes, maybe hours. She wasn't sure. She just kept walking, hoping to outrun the thoughts chasing her.
Finally, she stopped. Her breath puffed out in small clouds in the freezing air. She looked around, only to realize where she'd ended up.
The graveyard.
She sighed, her face tightening as she stared at the rows of headstones.
Of all places…
It was cold, quiet, and unsettling. But it also felt familiar... too familiar.