H.A.
Hilda Aldwick.
Meryl sat back on her heels for a moment and traced the letters with her fingertip.
Her great-aunt had made this. Had chosen the fabric, stitched the seams, and quilted the layers together by hand. Had folded it and put it away in this room. Maybe had slept under it in winter, with the wind in the trees and frost at the windows and the whole mountain dark outside.
“I’m not staying,” Meryl said softly into the quiet room. “Not properly. This isn’t...”
She stopped.
Because she did not know how to finish that sentence.
This isn’t home.
This isn’t forever.
This isn’t mine.
All of them were true.
Weren’t they?
She smoothed the quilt into place with both hands. The room still smelled of dust and old wood and dry air, but something about it no longer felt quite so abandoned. As though the quilt had made the house less empty.
After that, she unpacked quickly and methodically. Sleeping bag on top of the quilt. Wash bag in the bathroom. Toothbrushand face wipes by the sink. Phone and charger on the bedside table, though she was not ready to trust the power, and there was barely any signal. Water bottle within reach. Flashlight on the windowsill.
She tried the bathroom tap. The water spat and coughed, then ran cold and clearer than before. She splashed her face, shivering at the shock of it, and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink.
Dust on her cheek. Hair escaping its tie. Eyes tired and wider than usual.
“You look ridiculous,” she told her reflection.
Her reflection did not disagree.
Back in the bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the cooler. She was not hungry, exactly, but she knew better than to leave herself running on nerves alone.
So she opened the cooler and made herself a practical sort of dinner: a bread roll, cheese, an apple, and a packet of salted crisps. Not glamorous, but food. She drank bottled water rather than think too hard about the pipes and ate sitting on the edge of the bed, the flashlight throwing a soft, uneven light across the room.
Halfway through the apple, she glanced toward the window.
The last of the light had drained from the sky. Beyond the glass, the dark had deepened to velvet blue, and above the black line of the trees, the first stars were beginning to appear.
She found herself standing before she had fully decided to.
More stars appeared as she watched, and then more again.
She had forgotten what a real night sky looked like.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for the quilt, wrapped it around her shoulders, and headed back downstairs.
The stars were coming out properly by the time she stepped onto the porch and lowered herself onto the top safe step, wrapped in Hilda’s faded patchwork against the cold.
The air was chilly enough to bite now, but it was clean and alive, and after the stale house it felt good in her lungs.
For the first time since arriving, Meryl stopped trying to assess anything.
She just sat.
