Time... it slips through my fingers like sand. I try to hold onto it, but it keeps moving, never stopping. It feels like it’s draining out of me.
Today already feels like yesterday. The sun has dipped behind the cliffs of Mendocino. Morning barely touched me before itwas gone. One blink, and the air already carries that soft chill of night.
There’s something about this place. I can’t name it yet. Maybe it’s the cliffs that drop into the restless ocean, or the house itself standing next to it. Whatever it is, it pulls me, like I don’t have a choice but to move closer.
So, I stand here, staring at the property like a piece of gothic art, frozen in time. Behind me, the low sound of Victor’s Volvo fades into the distance until it disappears completely. And all that’s left is silence.
In my hands, the plastic bags press into my fingers. One is filled with food I picked without a second thought, not knowing what a whole week of living even looks like now. The other holds clothes from a secondhand shop that still carry someone else’s life in their seams.
If it were up to me, I would’ve bought bread and cheese, and that would’ve been enough, but Margaret insisted that it’s terrible for digestion. The main reason why my bag ended up full of vegetables and fruit instead.
I can’t even blame myself. All I want is a hot shower, clean skin, and fresh clothes. Something simple that makes me feel like I’m still here in the land of living.
I take two steps closer to the house, shifting the bags in my hands as I reach into the pocket of my blazer. My fingers struggle to find the key. I balance one bag against my hip, steady the other, then slide the key into the lock and turn it twice, and the door opens.
The moment my foot crosses the threshold, a cold gust brushes against my face, as if the house is exhaling. And the silence that comes after... it settles heavy enough to press into my bones.
I step further inside. The dark wooden floor creaks under my feet, sounding through the empty space as I move forward.
There’s a faint noise coming from the living room, like a window is left open somewhere, making a breeze slip through the halls.
I try to ignore it. And instead of checking what the sound might be, I head toward the staff kitchen. As I step inside, I grip the bags tighter, searching for somewhere to set them down.
The door slams shut, making my head snap up, knocking the breath from my lungs.
“Hello?” I shout into the empty air. A creeping feeling twists my stomach, then drags itself up my spine. I already know no one will answer. But still, a small part of me fears I might not be alone.
“Great, Aurelia,” I mutter under my breath. “Now you’re talking to yourself too.”
My gaze drops back to the bags. I take out one item at a time, placing them down carefully, glancing over my shoulder as if I expect someone to be standing in the doorway, watching me. Waiting. No one is ever there, but the feeling doesn’t leave.
The second the last item is out of the bag, I straighten and rush out of the kitchen, letting the door slam shut behind me.
I walk quickly, eyes fixed on my feet, as if that might shake the feeling trailing behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, something moves. A shadow.
My gaze lifts slowly toward the staircase, and my breath catches in my throat. I could swear something moved. My hands come up to my face, rubbing my eyes. The cheap plastic bag is still hanging from my wrist, its handle pulling my skin.
“Is anyone here?”
No one answers.
I move further down the hallway. That same feeling follows me, like the eyes on my back.
My heart races fast enough that I feel it everywhere, in my chest, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. Goosebumps rise along my skin as I pass the staircase.
Then I hear a sudden, sharp creak.
I turn around.
The front door is open.
The bag slips from my hand, hitting the floor. I try to look up, but fear locks my body in place, like if I do, someone will be standing there, watching me.
Maybe the same man from the station followed me. Maybe I have a stalker now.
“No, Aurelia,” a whisper comes under my breath. “It’s just the wind.”
