WHEN CLEARS THE MIST

     

The alarm wakes her with a jolt. Screaming, louder than the clock itself.

She fumbles for it, stops the noise, turns on the lamp.

Six in the morning. She has had only a few hours restless sleep.

Since last night, a bad feeling has lodged itself somewhere beneath her ribs.

Or perhaps it is only that she has been thinking too much about him, these last days.

Alexandra dreamed of him again.

This time, he was lying in a bed, covered with a white sheet.

His face, pale. His hand reaching towards her as if asking for help—his mouth forming words she could not understand.

She reached for him. He pulled her close, but it was not romantic.

It was frightening.

How? she thinks now, her fingers curled into the duvet. 

Why would I be scared of him?

He was her lover. The man she loved for about two years, until he disappeared.

Over one year ago...

No means to find him. Nothing to follow—no address, no telephone.

She does not even know his surname. To her, he is only Martin.

What could have happened to him? Could he be dead?

As a sales representative, as he said he was, he travelled constantly.

So susceptible to accidents…

Did he tire of her? Does he have a family somewhere—a wife, children?

What secrets did he hide?

These questions have worn a groove in her mind.

She had never worried before—not really, not like this.

Three weeks away, sometimes one month, but he always came back…

Where are you, Martin?

Alexandra pulls the duvet to her chin.

The room is cold, and her body refuses the day.

She would give anything to stay here, to let the hours pass without her.

But she cannot.

Her work waits. She starts at seven.

That bastard doesn’t tolerate lateness.

Since he became hotel manager, he has the power to do what he wants.

Working there for nearly nine years, she expected to be promoted to head of the maids—as he insists on calling them—when the position became available.

But he chose someone else. Of course he did.

She didn’t succumb to the charming smile he uses to win people over.

She knew what it implied. Womaniser.

Every time she catches him staring at her, there's a mockery in his eyes, as if to say: That man let you down.

She tries to ignore it. Still, a prickling lingers at her nape.

He recently split from his wife—or she got rid of him, as people say.

The last interaction before the head maid choice, he had invited her for a drink.

I’m engaged, she said.

Don’t be silly. You’re not. You’re alone.

She can’t deny he has a point. She is alone. Unable to feel anything for another person. Why does she wait for him?

The truth is, Martin is still unresolved in her mind, in her heart.

Though he never said he wanted to marry her. He would even say she was his woman.

The nagging question is: was she the only one? Or one of them?

For a while, he made her dream. A house somewhere else. Living with him. Being his wife. The kind who looks after her husband and home.

Nowadays, that’s seen as mawkish. But what can she do if the idea pleases her? Some people would say she’s daft.

Her job is seen as something minor, yet it doesn't make her feel inferior.

There’s a kind of pleasure in organising a room, making it beautiful again. It’s like making the world better. At least for someone who might appreciate it. If not, no problem. She’s paid for it.

What makes her, somehow, an independent woman—with her own income, enough to survive…

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands.

Her dressing gown lies across the chest at the foot of the bed. She does not open the curtains. The light would only make her feel colder.

She is shivering—from the chill, from the dream.

She touches things. The chair. The desk. Small anchors to steady herself while the dream still clings.

It frightened her, but perhaps it is only metaphor. Symbolism.

Her subconscious, using strange images to tell her what she already knows: his embrace is how she feels now. Forlorn. Abandoned.

The thought settles like ice along her spine.

She opens the wardrobe. His clothes still hang there—trousers, shirts.

She touches a white one. So pristine, as if it never belonged to anyone.

They do not carry his scent anymore. She has washed them.

She looks at the garments for a long moment. They seem intrusive now.

They should not be here.

Does she miss him?

In a way, yes. But she has begun to wonder if what she felt for him was ever love.

Felt. She is not sure what she still feels.

Something inside her is becoming distant.

When he stayed at the cottage, it was never more than a few days.

Never a whole week.

Sometimes he would sit on the sofa, legs apart, a glass of whiskey in his hand, swirling the amber, the ice cubes clinking.

He would look at her as if she were a rare thing. She would blush. He would smile.

She never knew what was going on in his mind.

He would tap his thigh, inviting her. She would settle there, and he would rock her with his bare, muscular leg, the thick hair tickling her skin.

Then he would roll her onto the couch and climb over her.

The last time they saw each other was the beginning of winter. Just like now.

What more does the dream want to show her?

Something deep inside whispers: He is not coming back.

She shakes the thought loose. Pulls clothes from the wardrobe for the chilled day—pants, a sweater. She will change at the hotel into her uniform. The beige striped dress.

Plain. Boring. Ordinary.

She pads to the small kitchen. The kettle. The jar with tea bags.

The single cup she washes each night on the drainboard for morning.

While the water heats, she stands at the window. Cloudy day…

As a girl, she had dreamt of becoming a ballerina.

They were poor—her parents could never afford lessons, let alone shoes.

But the daughter of her mum’s employer took classes, and sometimes she would arrive home exhausted, still in her pink leotard, complaining of sore feet and aching limbs. I hate it everything about it, she would say, in a bad mood and tearful.

What was a dream for Alexandra seemed like a nightmare for that girl.

The girl never became a professional. For Alexandra, her dream worn away along the years. By the time she was a teenager, it had become something she once wished, like a doll she had overgrown.

The kettle clicks off. She pours.

Then her parents died. A contagious disease.

Her grandma called it that damned illness. The words hardening her mouth.

Alexandra was already living with her by that time—sent away to be spared.

Though no one said it aloud…

Her memories of those weeks are vague, fragmented.

The sealed coffins. She couldn’t see her parents. The swift funeral.

No time to weep, no space for grief to root.

Her grandma didn’t cry. Neither did she.

She was numb, as if watching herself from a great distance.

The pain came later. It always does…

It came in waves, years of them, each one knocking her further from the shore of who she had been.

The things she didn’t live. The things she didn’t have. The things she wasn’t allowed to wish.

Her parents did not see her grow up. They remained in the past, just like her dream of becoming a ballerina.

Her grandma had few resources. Alexandra used to help her clean houses.

Her studies ended before she could even think of college—a door that had never been open, only glimpsed from afar.

When her grandma fell ill, Alexandra found the job as a maid at the hotel.

Near six years working there until meeting Martin…

It was one morning, when she entered his room, thinking it was empty.

No luggage in the short hallway. The shutters closed. Dark. Silence.

But the guest was there, revealed as she turned on the lights.

Lying on the bed, his body barely uncovered, much of the sheet crumpled to one side. Naked.

The sight shocked her. Not because she had never seen a naked man, yet she froze in awe. His muscular body covered in dark hair, and the impressive arousal.

Not that she had much experience with men to make a comparison, but that was huge…

He opened his eyes to her gaping. To her surprise, he showed no embarrassment.

He just… grinned.  She threatened to leave, but she couldn't take her eyes off his body—that thing—as he stood up.

‘I’m leaving very soon. I just need a shower. You can start your job. Don’t worry about me.’

His easy manner was both annoying and captivating. He was attractive, she couldn’t deny…

‘I’ll be back later,’ she said, and hurried out…

At the end of her shift, when her boss came looking for her, she was certain she would be fired. Instead, he simply handed her a bouquet of flowers with a card bearing her name and a message...

To the most beautiful girl I’ve seen. Martin.

One week later, she was invited to dinner.

He approached her on the street as she was cycling home.

She should have refused, but she was flattered, and she couldn’t get his nakedness out of her head...

She could lose her job if they found out. He was careful to take her to a restaurant in a nearby town.

There, their story began. For two years.

Nonetheless, Martin never admitted that that morning had been a trap, though he somehow knew she would be cleaning his room—which became obvious when he later said he had been watching her for some time.

She remembered him sometimes passing her in the hotel corridors. She was always in a hurry and had never paid him any attention. The most she noticed was an occasional smile from him...

All this time, she never truly knew who he was.

He was mysterious, mischievous, yet irresistible.

Looking back, she wonders: why did he never ask her to stop working at the hotel?

In those first months, he was there often. Then he started coming to her house instead.

He became like a non-committal husband. He could have asked her to quit.

But he didn’t.

The tea is getting cold fast, and it is bitter. Or is it her mouth?

Emotion can change the perception of many things, including taste.

What you’re used to isn’t the same anymore.

The common becomes different. The different becomes inconvenient.

At this stage in her life, she feels like that...

Without friends or people she can confide in about her intimacies.

Those, encrusted on the walls of her core.

Some of them, bitter like the tea, to which she adds a bit more sugar.

Though what is hidden inside cannot be sweetened.

Perhaps that is what she tastes now in her mouth.

Placing the mug in the sink, she moves to the bathroom.

She splashes warm water on her face and studies her reflection.

Her skin is dry. The weather steals the moisture as the years steal the freshness.

In one year she will be turning thirty-five. The age of her mum when the disease took her.

She doesn’t resemble her. Her mum had a small, pale face.

She has her father’s tanned complexion. Her face longer.

Her brown eyes hold another shade of hazel today, darker.

Dark circles from her bad night’s sleep.

The waves of her hair are tangled and look a darker shade of brown, oily.

Dark, dark, matching the day outside.

It needs washing, but there’s no time for that. She’ll do it tomorrow, on her day off.

This morning, only to tie her hair as usual and a dash of makeup to look fine.

Just fine…

One last glance—her upturned nose. She still can hear her grandma’s words—not a rebuke, but an affectionate tone: the nose of a cheeky person.

Cheeky? Do features shape personality?

If she were a cheeky person, she wouldn’t cleaning hotel rooms…

She gets ready shortly. Before she leaves, mounted on her bike, she looks back at the cottage.

Her cottage. The feeling was a blend of pride and sad shame.

Proud, because it’s the rented place she lived in with her grandma.

Shame, because of how she earned it—Martin’s gift to her, a way to compensate her for their time together, like payment for their intimacy. In her mind it feels wrong.

Her grandma never would have approved.

At the same time, sad… Could it have been a farewell gift?

She cycles against the cold wind, her beret pulled tight around her head, her scarf protecting her throat.

Crossing the stony bridge to the other side of the town, she pauses for a moment.

Below her, the river, a cloudy crystal, reflecting the pale sky.

Behind her, the cemetery lies surrounded by an iron fence, as if the dead needed protection. The trees on the site look apathetic, most of them bare, resembling  lifeless beings standing guard.

She thinks of her parents, her grandma. They are there…

Ahead, the shopping square. The bakery windows fogged with heat. The florist’s shop, still dark, the buckets of flowers inside faintly visible.

The other shops still shuttered in the yawn of the morning.

Alexandra likes the town like this—undecided, not yet awake.

At the far end of the square, between the café and the bookshop, stands the hotel—taller than its neighbours by two storeys—its dark brick façade, imposing against the neighbours with their soft pastels—faded pink, butter yellow.

The dark green canopy extends over the entrance, and the windows on the upper floors are curtained, revealing nothing. While the café windows steam with warmth.

She rides to the narrow street behind the hotel, to the employees’ entrance. After securing her bike inside the foyer, she moves to the bathroom to change into her uniform.

Soon, she is walking down the corridor with its polished marble floor towards the lift, and begins her routine—cleaning and organising the rooms.

It is mid-afternoon, her shift nearly over, when a colleague calls her down to Benicio’s office. Alexandra doesn’t like the idea—what could that man want with her?

As far as she knows, there are no problems with her work.

Are there? Any complaints from guests?

Sometimes, over silly things, they complain.

From the corridor, she glimpses the huge antique chime clock by the reception area—where armchairs, a coffee table, magazines, even books, alongside a painting of a country landscape, all attempt to make the space feel like home for guests. Ten minutes, it says. Ten minutes until she can go to her own.

She stands for an instant before knocking at the office door, preparing herself— though for what, she cannot say. Bad news travels on its own schedule. Good news rarely needs an office.

Taking a deep breath, she knocks, though the door is ajar.

Benicio’s husky voice resonates. ‘Come in.’

His bulky frame is behind his desk, papers in front of him, a pen in his hand with which he points to a small white envelope. ‘This is for you.’

What irritates her is why it couldn’t have been handed directly to her.

‘Who left this for me?’ She grabs it. It’s sealed, her name written by hand in legible script.

‘A guest left it with the receptionist. She said, a guest. A tall, good-looking man…’ He pauses. ‘Are you hiding anything, Alexandra?’

‘No… er… what are you talking about?’

‘You know what I’m talking about. I don’t need to tell you again.’

He scrutinises her face. She knows what he is thinking: Do not get involved with guests. You know the hotel rules.

She feels her cheeks burn, even though there’s no reason to…

Benicio scratches his well-groomed black beard, his dark eyes making her uneasy. It feels like an adult reprimanding a child, though she is aware his concern is not really the hotel rules—it’s his resentment towards her for not giving in to his advances.

She’s getting tired of it. Perhaps she can find work elsewhere, though she likes the job here. The pay is good, plus tips from guests.

She thanks him without meeting his eyes, trying not to show her anxiety, and leaves the office. She hurries to the changing room, grabs her bike, desperate to be alone and open the envelope.

Outside, in the square, she scans around for privacy. Perhaps go home…

Then decides on the cemetery. She stops her bike at the far end, by a bench under the trees, overlooking her parents’ and grandma’s graves.

Trembling, she opens the envelope. Inside, a letter in blue ink.

Alexandra,

If you are reading this, I am gone, and Philippe has kept his promise.

Forgive his intrusion, and mine.

First, and always, I am sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the lie.

I was not a sales representative. I owned farms—orchards, mostly—in the south.

I was also a husband. I met you during the final, bitter year of my marriage.

You were a light in a very dark time.

That first morning, your shock, then your quiet dignity… you were real in a world that had gone false for me. I loved you from the moment my eyes truly saw you.

All our three years together—can you believe it? It seems like yesterday. My love for you only grew stronger.

My plan was always to return to you for good. I was arranging a divorce.

It was ugly and slow. I told myself I would not bring that shadow to your doorstep.

I told myself you deserved a clean beginning, not a messy ending. So I hid the truth. I thought I was sparing you.

Then, I found out about my health. I woke up one day feeling wrong.

The doctor requested tests. The prognosis was not hopeful. It meant an uncertain future.

The last time I saw you, I wanted to tell you, but I could not give you that burden.

You deserved someone who could love you wholly. I was divided. Divided between my love for you and the slow ruin of my body.

You have suffered enough in your life. The loss of your parents, raised by your grandmother.

She did a wonderful job. You turned into this remarkable person—clever, witty, and so thoughtful.

I convinced myself the kindest thing was to let you think I had simply chosen to leave.

I wanted to give you a new life, away from here. Openly. I thought you might hate me, but you would move on. You would live.

The cottage was not a farewell gift, but an apology in advance.

A small piece of security for the woman who gave me more love than I ever deserved.

You deserved that, and so much more.

You cannot imagine the hell I lived. The treatment made me unrecognisable—it is what cancer does. And when I thought it was gone, it returned. This time, there was no option.

I was a coward, Alexandra. I chose the clean pain of a break for myself, and inflicted the long, confused pain of abandonment on you. For that, I will never forgive myself.

I hope you can forgive me.

Please do not waste your heart on my memory. You once saw something whole in me. That is the gift I carry from this life.

I wish you every happiness in this world.

Be well. Live.

Yours,

Martin

She reads it again, numb, not knowing exactly how she feels. Too much to digest.

Her eyes prickle. Coward is the word she murmurs, yet her heart is in pain.

Despite everything, he could have let her know.

She had spent all that time imagining a thousand things, even thinking that she was the problem.

How many times had she imagined she wasn’t good enough for him? Not that he was refined, but he had money—and she was just a simple worker.

On the back of the sheet is a name—Philippe—and a phone number.

A brief note: I’m Martin’s friend. Please call me if you have any questions.

 She sniffles, tapping the letter with her fingers.

The pale sunlight is landing lazily on her family graveyard— the white tiles have lost their gloss and seem faded against the weathered cement.

What would her mum, her grandma say?

Probably nothing… She wouldn’t have become involved with Martin in the first place.

What to do now? Carry on with her life, pretending nothing happened? That Martin had been an illusion? Unwilling to believe what she had read.

But she knows better. Reality is staring her in the face, in black letters on the paper.

They are trapped there, unable to escape, just as she cannot pretend that none of this is true. All she wants is to escape—from the truth that hurts her soul...

She scoffs at herself. Silly. What about his clothes in your wardrobe? His toothbrush, his comb, his slippers, the razor, the aluminium bowl for lathering, his aftershave—which she inhales from time to time. All of it proof that he had been real…

To know that he will never be back is devastating, and, ironically, relieving—no need to wait for him anymore. Though she is desperately in need of knowing more. Knowing better. Knowing him.

She returns to the square. From a small shop she gets some coins. Propping her bike against the phone box, she feeds them in, dials. Her heart pounds while it rings.

One, two, three, four, five…

‘Hello?’

‘Philippe?’

‘It’s him.’

‘I’m Alexandra… you said in the letter I could call you… er…’

The words tumble out in her agitation. His calm, deep voice reassures her.

‘You mean Martin’s letter.’

‘Yeah…’

‘I assume you have questions, though…’

‘I do. How can we sort it out?’

‘You mean… the answers from me to your questions?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘I think we have to meet up. Not by phone.’

Before agreeing, Alexandra looks at the passers-by, as if what she is about to say is something forbidden. A secret.

‘When?’ she asks.

‘Anytime suits you. I’m at the hotel where you work…’

She cuts in. ‘No… not at the hotel.’

‘I didn’t mean to meet me there. The coffee shop, perhaps?’

‘I'm not sure…’

‘Look, you have questions, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I…’

‘You don’t want to have this talk in a public place, is that it?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘So, what’s your idea?’

She is about to say you can answer me by phone, but he’s already dismissed that.

In the spur of the moment, without thinking too much about it—and already regretting what she’s about to suggest—she blurts it out.

‘My house.’

She can hear a smile in his voice. ‘Okay. Give me your address.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m driving. Approaching the hotel square.’

‘Oh, I’m here.’

‘At the hotel?’

‘No, in the square.’

‘Can we meet there?’

‘We can.’

‘Where will I find you?’

‘I’ll be by the phone box. My hair in a ponytail. I’m wearing a dark green coat. And… ah, I have a red bike.’

She hears a little chuckle. ‘I know who you are…’

‘Really?’

‘I have watched you for some time.’

‘Where?’ She thinks she sounds stupid asking, at the hotel, of course…

But he says, ‘In town… at a distance… thinking of the best moment to look for you…’

‘Oh…’ She feels exposed, and instinctively looks around, as if expecting to see someone suspicious watching her...

‘I’ll be there very soon,’ he says.

Five minutes pass? She feels like it’s less… Because he finds her unprepared—jostling on her bicycle, shifting like someone trying to find a comfortable pose, desperate to make a good impression—when a voice comes from the side she wasn’t looking at.

‘Hey.’

She turns. A tall, good-looking man in a dark coat. Her body trembles, just a little.

‘Philippe?’

He nods. ‘Hi… nice to meet you.’

He reaches out his hand. His grip is firm, his skin rough.

His eyes linger a bit longer on her, and she avoids looking at him as she replies.

‘Me too…’

‘My car is parked over there.’ He points to a maroon pickup truck parked next to the hotel.

Then to her bike. ‘We can put it in the back.’

 ‘Okay,’ she says.

He walks with her as she pushes her bike. Approaching the car, he lifts it easily and settles it among the straps of the truck bed. He secures it with a quick, practiced movement.

‘There.’ He dusts his hands. ‘Ready?’

She isn’t. But she gives in.

He opens the passenger door for her. She climbs in—the cab smells of soil and engine oil and something else. Coffee, maybe. He gets in beside her and starts the engine.

It rumbles beneath them.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Then he looks at her. ‘Which way?’

She gives him directions in short sentences. Left at the bridge. Straight through the village. Not too far by car…

He drives slowly. She steals glimpses at him when he’s not looking.

His profile. His strong hands on the wheel. The way his jaw tightens when he checks the mirror. His stubble. His black hair—in need of a cut, or left to grow on purpose.

He catches her once. Doesn’t say anything. Just lifts one corner of his mouth, almost a smile, and looks back at the road.

Her face warms. She stares out the window.

‘It's good you still work at the hotel.’

‘Good?’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I mean… it was the only reference I had. What Martin told me…’

‘Ah…’

‘I confess I took a while to decide to come look for you. But I couldn’t break a promise, could I?’

‘How long has he…’

‘Two months ago.’

‘Oh…’

He glances at her. ‘I’m sorry, Alexandra.’

The way he says her name—a husky edge, alien and intimate at once—startles her.

Like waking from a trance. Something hypnotic about him. About his voice.

She doesn’t want to dwell on it, and feels relief as the cottage appears at the end of the lane—small, grey stone, the bare oaks out front. Winter doesn’t spare anyone.

He pulls up beside the gate and cuts the engine.

He turns to her. His eyes are the same colour as Martin’s—she notices it now.

The same blue. The same way they hold still when looking at someone.

‘Alexandra,’ he says. Just her name. Like he’s testing it.

She swallows. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll get your bike.’

‘Leave it on the porch, please,’ she says as she gets out of the car, opens the gate, goes up the few steps, unlocks the door, and pushes it wide. She looks back. Philippe comes up with her bike.

She finds herself absorbed by the sight of him. The way he moves. The careful way he places the bike in the corner.

‘Do you lock it?’

‘No. No one will take it.’

He grins. They stand there, both momentarily still. Their eyes lock. His hands in his pockets. The key still in her hand.

Then she realises.

‘Oh… sorry. Come in.’

Inside, the cold feels stale and settled. Outside, what little sunshine there was during the day has faded away. The clock on the wall shows it's past five o’clock.

‘It’s freezing,’ Philippe exclaims, rubbing his hands together.

‘I haven’t lit it today… I left early for…’

‘I haven’t lit the fire today.’

‘I know…’

He looks at the ash-filled hearth and at her, hugging herself in her coat.

‘Would you allow me?’

‘Be my guest,’ she says, gesturing to the basket of wood by the fireplace.

She moves to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

She hears the rustle of paper, the snap of kindling, the strike of a match.

A profoundly domestic sound. It transports her.

Martin did this… He would make the room cosy while she prepared their meal.

Afterwards, they would lie side by side, the fire painting the walls with moving light.

That had been the only good thing about winter: the profound pleasure of being close. The deep, quiet warmth of another body next to hers.

Now, the sound belongs to a stranger bearing news of a ghost. Not quite a stranger…

Still…

She leans against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, held in the space between memory and the unbearable present.

When she returns with tea, he is on his knees before the hearth, coaxing the fledgling flames.

‘Here. Have some tea… to warm you up while you wait for the fire to heat the room,’ she says.

Philippe turns. His face is illuminated by the growing fire. It softens the melancholy in his features. It makes him enigmatic, and quite handsome. His dishevelled hair, his long, aristocratic nose, his mouth twisted into an untranslatable expression.

He rises up. She hands him the mug. Their fingers brush—a brief, electric contact, that runs through her body for infinite seconds…

Her face flushes, though the room is not yet warm enough…

He takes it, his eyes not leaving hers.

‘Now we can talk.’ It’s not a question from him.

Alexandra points to the small couch. She settles in the armchair opposite.

Philippe sits, cradling his mug.

The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

‘I suppose the letter was a shock,’ he begins.

‘It was. And it wasn’t.’ She meets his gaze. ‘Part of me always suspected another life. A wife. I just… never imagined the rest.’

‘There were no children. Just a marriage that had been over for years. The divorce was almost final when he got the diagnosis.’

‘I see… How did he cope with the disease?’

‘He tried to be strong. First months were… manageable. He had hope in the treatment. He thought he’d beaten it. He was making plans… After the divorce, for coming back to you openly. But the treatment didn’t work as expected. And at the end, nothing else could be done…’

Alexandra looks into the fire, absorbing the timeline. Over a year of his suffering, while she waited in ignorant resentment.

Everything she thought—every bitter night, every self-doubt, every moment she blamed herself or him—is now reframed.

He wasn’t gone by choice.

He wasn’t with someone else.

He was dying.

He was planning to come back to her.

Her throat tightens.

‘You were with him?’ she manages.

‘Through most of it. Especially at the end.’

‘What was it like?’ Her voice comes out in a whisper.

Philippe takes a slow breath. ‘He was in pain, but he was never without dignity. His greatest fear wasn't dying. It was the thought of you watching him fade away. He called it ‘the last, unforgivable lie.’

He pauses, choosing his words. ‘He talked about you constantly. Not with guilt, but with a kind of… awe. He’d describe things… the way you frowned when concentrating on a task, the exact sound of your laugh. It was as if, by remembering you in perfect detail, he could keep you safe in his mind… away from the ugliness around him.’

He hesitates. ‘He didn’t want you to see him like that… Sorry…’

Alexandra swallows hard, her eyes glistening in the firelight.

‘He had no right to decide that for me.’

‘I know,’ Philippe says softly. ‘I told him that. Many times.’

She looks at him, really seeing him for the first time. ‘You were a very good friend to him...’

‘I was the keeper of his regrets. And of his feelings for you…’

‘How did you know him so well?’ She steers the conversation back to safer ground.

The idea of what else Martin might have told him—some kind of talk between men—makes her uncomfortable.

 ‘We grew up together. Same street, same school. Our families were close. Both only children… same age. More like brothers than friends. We even ended up in the same profession…’

‘Did you work together?’

‘In a way. We were both agricultural engineers. The difference was, he had the family orchards to run. My job was to consult, to help farmers like him. So I helped him, too. It kept me near.’

‘What his orchards produce?’

‘Different types of fruit, like pears, plums… some nuts as well…’

‘Are his parents alive?’

‘Just his mum... Like me.’

‘And… are you close to his wife?’

‘Not really.’

Philippe pulls a face—a clear, eloquent twist of distaste.

As if reading her thoughts—and to cut off any speculation—he adds, ‘You’re exactly how Martin described you.’

A stillness sets in the room, filled only by the crackle of the fire.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ She’s not sure she wants to hear it, but the question is posed.

He sighs deeply, then speaks. His tone low, rhythmic, like reciting a memorised poem.

‘Your hair is the colour of chocolate with caramel… rich, warm. Your eyes are the shade of wild honey… intense, addictive. Your lips are like a ripe strawberry… irresistible. A perfect, delicious combination…’

The words are too intimate, too vivid. Alexandra can hear them in Martin’s voice.

He would say something like this, but she realises these are not necessarily his words. Or if they are, Philippe has appropriated them.

He uttered them as if they were his.

His eyes boring into hers is not the look of someone delivering a posthumous compliment. It’s the look of a man proffering something of his own…

She feels her cheeks burning.

She is looking anywhere but at him…

A long silence stretches between them, broken only by the fire’s quiet crepitation, the rhythmic tick-tock of the cuckoo clock’s hands, and the soft scratch of Philippe’s throat as he finishes his tea.

He places his mug on the small central table with a definitive thud.

Alexandra disguises her own unease by drinking the last of her tea.

It has gone lukewarm.

‘I need to see it,’ she breaks the silence, her eyes fixed on the flames.

‘See what?’

‘The grave. I need to see his name on the stone. Otherwise… it’s just a story. Just something you told me.’

It’s the second time today she has a bold attitude. She cannot recognise herself. She’s just aware that something inside her has shifted to a version of herself that always existed, one she had ignored.

Philippe scrutinises her face. ‘You think we faked it? You think I’d come all this way to tell you a lie?’ His voice carries a raw, indignant edge.

‘No. That’s not what I meant.’ She looks down at her hands. ‘It’s just… I need to see it to put an end to it in my mind. To understand. Otherwise…’

‘Otherwise what?’

‘Otherwise, I’ll keep living as if he’ll appear at any moment. As I’ve done for the one and a half years. Seeing his grave… it’s the only way to truly say goodbye. To end our story.’

Philippe lets out a slow breath, the tension leaving him. He nods, his expression softening. ‘I’m sorry. Of course you need to…’

‘Tell me where he's buried, please.’

‘I can do better than that.’ A sad smile plays on his lips.

‘What do you mean?’ She frowns.

‘I can take you there. I can drive you.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because it’s close to where I live… about three and a half hours from here…’

‘You don't need to do that.’

‘I think you need to say goodbye to Martin properly…’

‘But this is not your concern.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I'm glad to help…’

‘What about your work?’

‘Don’t worry about it. I'm my own boss. I can take a day off. I’m sure you can, too… and I can drive you back here as well.'

Her eyes widen. ‘Why would you go to this trouble? You certainly have someone waiting for you. They wouldn’t like the idea…’

‘Someone waiting…’ He smirks. ‘A wife, you mean?’

‘Could be…’

‘No. I have no one waiting for me. Just my mum, whom I see occasionally…’

The revelation is somehow comforting.

‘And if you want to know, I’m working in this area this week. So, I will have to come back anyway. Just one day off for both of us,’ he adds.

She looks into the dying fire, then back at him.

‘All right. By chance, tomorrow is my day off…’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ he says, the statement hanging between them. ‘I’ll pick you up, say, eight o’clock?’

‘Tomorrow… eight o’clock…’ she echoes.

Philippe stands up, smooths his pants, and extends his arm, offering a formal handshake.

Her fingers wrap in his grip. But he doesn’t release her immediately.

Instead, his other hand lands on her shoulder.

A slight, steadying squeeze…

‘Get some rest, Alexandra. I’ll see you in the morning…’

The gesture feels possessive and protective all at once. Soft, with the ability to steer something inside her.

His raspy voice, so close—she can smell his tea-flavoured breath, the woodsmoke from the hearth, a trace of his musky cologne.

The closeness is disconcerting…

He lets go. The withdrawal of his hand feels abruptly cold. Not right…

What’s going with her?

He buttons his coat and sees himself out.

Alexandra leans against the doorframe, bracing against the gust of wind, watching him walk down the path.

He opens the gate, closes it behind him, and is swallowed by the night on the dimly lit street.

He reaches the car and notices her still there. He honks the horn. Waves. Then drives away.

She closes the door and holds the handle for seconds, listening to the engine fade.

Then locks it, and treads unhurried to the living room.

The cottage is warm from the fire he started.

Not only in the room. Her body as well…

The silence within it has been transformed. It is no longer the silence of waiting, but something else…

She collects the mugs from the centre table, carrying them to the kitchen. Washes them, places them in the drainer.

Turns off the lights. One by one.

The kitchen. The living room.

Then goes to the loneliness of her bedroom.

 

Martin lies beside her. She doesn't see him—her back is turned—but she can feel him.

If she turns, could she touch him?

His naked body, as it has always been his habit to sleep. It doesn't matter if it’s cold.

‘I have missed you,’ he says.

She keeps quiet.

‘But I think you deserve better,’ he insists.

‘What do you mean?’ She decides to ask.

‘Someone to look after you. I can’t…’

‘I’m not sick…’

‘I meant someone to love you.’

‘You don’t love me anymore?’

‘I do, but I make you cry. I’ll be happy if you’re happy…'

‘I’m not unhappy…’

‘You’re grieving me. That’s not good. And you know I can’t come back to you…’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t want to see you upset. It’s time to walk a new path. It’s what I’m going to do as well…’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying… live your life. Let yourself be loved, and love. Be happy, please.’

‘Martin, I…’

She hears a breath, feels a draught and a movement.

‘Martin?’

She opens her eyes and fumbles in bed, reaching for the lamp.

The digital clock shows five-thirty…

The clock she bought when the hotel started using them in the rooms.

Which Martin neither disdained nor disliked. He simply observed how modern it was.

She recalls the events of yesterday, of last night…

Philippe…

Why is she thinking of him now, while the sense of Martin in the room is still so strong?

It must have been a dream… or a hallucination?

It felt so real…

She is sceptical about ghosts—she has never seen one—but she wasn’t awake…

Her body shivers.

There is a change in the air, as if she truly did have that conversation with Martin.

He was here…

It feels like confirmation of something she has sensed lately—a shift within her, towards something else… someone else…

She lies awake, unable to sleep again. Her body is accustomed to rising early most days.

Soon, Philippe will call.

Their trip to visit Martin’s grave. Was it a good idea?

She decided it without much thought…

But she needs to say goodbye. It sounds ridiculous, knowing she won’t see him—only his name on a plaque. However, seeing it might bring closure.

He no longer exists…

The bed is warm, but the day ahead waits.

Better start getting ready.

The chill of the room makes her skin crawl as she searches for something warm to wear. Quickly. Her bladder is full, too.

Relief, emptying it.

In the kitchen, she boils water for tea. Just tea. When she is anxious, she is never hungry.

Through the kitchen window, she sees that the day has not yet arrived.

The inverted twilight of morning—waiting not for shadows, but for light.

It will probably be cloudy. Winter in this little town sees little sun. A shame.

She loves it here so much.

Sometimes she thinks of living somewhere else, somewhere sunnier. But that would mean leaving behind the memories that keep her in this cottage.

Isn’t it time for a change?

Something has already shifted inside her.

That strange conversation, in which Martin spoke of walking a new path—perhaps it was a sign. She still marvels at how real it felt…

If her grandmother were alive, she would say it was. Alexandra recalls her telling stories of seeing ghosts… Seeing, but talking?

What does it matter right now?

Perhaps nothing or everything…

To distract her mind, she cleans her teeth, waits for the tap water to warm up, and splashes it on her face.

This morning, she wants to put some effort into her appearance. There is nothing wrong with that.

Her skin doesn’t require it—she has the treasure of a youthful complexion, even in her early thirties.

Still, a little makeup is not to be dismissed. Something that makes her look fresh even in the biting cold.

She takes her time. Then, she chooses carefully what to wear. A black wool dress. Charcoal grey cardigan. Thick tights. Black boots with worn heels.

She studies herself in the mirror. Sober, yes. Respectful. Yet the dress clings where it should, and the cardigan softens her.

She pins her hair back, then releases it. Leaves it down.

She perhaps shouldn’t be thinking like this. Or should she?

The truth is that there is a primal instinct she cannot deny.

Something her body knows and her mind is reluctant to admit.

It is as natural as breath—this awareness of being a woman in the presence of a man who makes her feel like one.

She thinks of him...

Why is she fantasising these things? She is an ordinary woman.

Why a man like him would have any interest on her?

Martin did, but he wasn’t a refined man.

Philippe has that sophisticated air, though he’s not arrogant. On the contrary…

He seems like a down-to-earth man, even if his job is not so different from Martin’s.

Perhaps the reason she’s allowing herself to think these things…

Or because she saw some sparkle in his eyes?

Or the way his hand touched hers… her shoulder.

That is not a dream…

It has been a long time since she has seen a such fond look on any man’s face…

Not something shallow as a sex intention, but something more consistent.

Almost tangible…

She saw it in Philippe…

As if on cue, she hears an engine outside…

She reaches for her bag and wraps a yellow scarf around her neck.

The engine stops.

He is here.

She doesn’t rush to the door, so as not to seem anxiously waiting—it’s already past eight. He’s not that punctual…

She runs her fingers through her hair, fixing the strands. She wants the waves to fall perfectly over her shoulders.

As she opens the door, he is standing there with an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry. I’m running a bit late. I had a terrible sleep…’

She is about to ask why, but he promptly adds:

‘I was thinking of you…’

She squints. Another question in her mind, one she doesn’t formulate.

For a few awkward seconds, they just look at each other, and she thinks she might understand what he meant.

‘Are you ready to go?’ He breaks the spell.

‘Yes.’ I’d started to believe you weren’t coming. ‘Anytime,’ she says aloud, not hinting at her earlier doubt.

‘You look great, by the way,’ he says.

‘Thanks…’

She locks the door. He is already heading down the path. She follows him, studying his gait—measured, unhurried, his shoulders relaxed, the easy stride of a man comfortable in his own skin.

His sturdy car parked by the curb, is a dark shape against the crystalline frost.

He opens the passenger door for her—a gentleman.

She climbs in, settling herself, her bag held tightly on her lap.

He gets in on his side. Before starting the engine, he looks at her—a searching, lingering look that makes her uneasy.

He drives at a low speed, passing near the town centre. A sparse scattering of people. Most shops still closed. Fog rolling in. Everything felt conspiratorial, as if the town itself was complicit in their departure—shrouding them, hiding them, so that she, they, would not be noticed. Then the houses thin out, the pavement ends, and they leave the town behind...

Ahead, the road.

Then Philippe speaks, cracking the frost between them.

‘How long have you worked at the hotel?’

‘About nine years.’

‘Do you like your job?’

‘Yeah…’

He glances at her. ‘It seems like tiring work. Have you ever thought about doing something else?’

‘I have, but I ended up getting used to it.’

‘I don't think it suits you…’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re too beautiful to…’

She interrupts him. ‘What? To be a housekeeper, you have to be ugly?’

‘That’s not what I meant… It’s just that you have a refined manner, and you’re intelligent, so…’

‘I understood.’

‘No offence intended. Sorry…’

‘Don’t worry… and thanks for the ‘beautiful’. She does the quotation mark with her fingers.

He grins at her. ‘It’s true… very true…’

She feels the heat rising to her face. He shifts the conversation to safer ground.

‘Do you have siblings?’

‘No. I’m an only child.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘They passed away when I was a teenager.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Did you live your whole life in the cottage?’

‘No. When my parents died, I went to live there with my grandma. It was rented back then…’

‘And you stayed.’

‘Yes. And now it’s mine. I don’t know if I’m sad or happy about that…’

‘Why?’

‘I wish my grandma were still alive. But at the same time, if she were, the cottage wouldn’t be mine…’

‘I’m not following…’

‘I would never have got involved with Martin.’

‘Was she strict?’

‘Kind of. Also, she saw things I didn't…’

‘Like what?’

‘She would have realised he was a married man…’

‘What would she say about me?’

‘Why would she? You’re not courting me…’

He laughs, and she feels self-conscious.

A silence descends between them.

He turns on the radio. Music plays softly.

Most of the songs she knows, but neither she nor he sings along. Others, she catches the melody but the lyrics escape her.

Her mind is busy. Brooding.

For quite some time, she lets her eyes wander, watching the landscape go by.

Green paddocks. Tall pines. Horses grazing. Hills rolling into the distance. Windbreaks protecting orchards.

Some of these could have been Martin’s. Philippe might work on others.

But Alexandra doesn’t ask.

As the car moves forward—the mountains long behind them—the view shifts, and so does the weather.

They pass pretty villages. Sunlit places.

At some point, she removes her coat, matching the changes outside.

Like her life lately. Since yesterday. The last hours…

As if a curtain of mist were dissipating—the uncertainties, the waiting, the fears, all of it, slowly fading away.

It becomes clearer when they arrive at Martin’s town, or rather, where he lies buried. It’s not much bigger than her own place.

He turns to a narrow road, before entering the town, and soon, set among the trees, the cemetery.

The sun is out, and as they step from the car, the weather is pleasant.

It is different from traditional ones—no graves or tombs, no statues, but flowers and trees. It resembles a green park, a place for picnics, if it weren’t for the markers on the ground.

Philippe doesn’t take long to find Martin’s.

Alexandra approaches it, engrossed.

The dream about him comes to mind.

A light breeze brushes across her face, and for a fleeting moment, she has the impression that someone is beside her... It isn’t Philippe.

She reads his marker.

MARTIN DELBERG

1982 – 2025

No ‘beloved husband’ or any other sentiment. Just the dash between the years of his existence.

She closes her eyes for a moment.

The silence is peaceful.

She does not cry. She brought no flowers.

Just says softly, ‘I’m here. You’re here. What existed between us, was good while it lasted. Now I’m free. You’re free. Good bye.’

Alexandra looks around, worried that Philippe might have heard, and is relieved to see him waiting by the gate. A respectful distance, allowing her privacy.

She walks down the grass and joins him.

‘What now?’ he asks, leaning against the car.

‘I could go home…’

‘Already?’ He tilts his head, studying her. ‘Are you not hungry?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why don’t we go into town? So you can see it? Actually, I want to show you something.’

‘What is it?’

‘Come with me.’

Alexandra climbs in. Philippe slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.

He drives slowly down the main street lined with old stone buildings.

Some shops have modern signs vying for attention alongside antique pub signs.

There is no bustle. People move at an unhurried pace, some strolling, others gathered in small groups on the footpath, talking.

Minutes later, he veers onto a leafy side street. Big houses, similar in style—most with front dormers, tall windows, porches, and beautiful gardens.

He stops across the street from one of them.

‘This is Martin's house.’

Alexandra’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, it’s amazing.’

‘Would you like to live in a house like this?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve always dreamed of living in a big house. Maybe because I lived in small places my whole life.’

Philippe grins, but it soon fades when she surprises him, inquiring.

‘Do you think Martin would have left his wife for me?’

‘I think so. He asked me to write you the letter, didn’t he?’

‘Perhaps because he was dying…’

He taps his forehead, then changes the subject.

‘I live about forty minutes from here. Would you like to visit my house? Meet my mum?’

A concern hangs in the air. Why this? It feels too intimate. Too much like bringing a girlfriend home. That’s not what this is. Is it?

She wanders lost in her thoughts while he watches her, waiting.

‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you, but I’d prefer to go home. You can drop me at the station. Or better, I can walk.’

She shifts in her seat to reach for the door handle. Realising her intention, his voice comes out louder than before—not harsh, but pleading.

‘Wait, please. I offered to bring you, and I meant to take you back.’

‘I know. But you’re so close to home. It’s not fair. You don’t need to go out of your way.’

‘It’s not out of my way. It’s a pleasure.’

‘I still think it’s not necessary…’

‘I have an idea.’ He pauses. ‘There’s a place about thirty minutes away, on an old road that leads back to your town. It’s a bit longer than the way we came, but it’s worth it. Along the way, you can see orchards, wineries. And we could stop for lunch. What do you think?’

She looks at him—at the hopeful raise of his brow, the charming smirk tugging at his lips.

She surrenders.

He drives at low speed, for the paving is uneven—as much to enjoy the scenery as to stretch their time together.

They pass a river, stone bridges, farmhouses, fields of vegetables and fruit crops.

Philippe points out the places where he works. She feels herself relax.

At some point, the tension disappears entirely, as if she has known him forever.

The car arrives at a village. He stops by a vernacular building with a giant windmill to one side, its sails rotating slowly in the wind. A sign reads: Hotel & Tavern.

From outside, it seems almost empty—only a few cars parked out front.

But when they step inside, they are taken aback by the hubbub: people drinking, people talking, music playing from a striking, spacious box that seems misplaced in the room—dropped here by mistake. The instrumental rhythm, albeit, is good; it suits the place.

Isn’t it too early for that? she reflects.

He reads her mind. ‘Most people are outsiders.’

The fireplace is lit, making the room cosy.

They approach the bar counter with its traditional wall of bottles in different colours, reflecting the pale light hanging above.

They agree to order a warm meal—the dish of the day, stew.

There is an empty table in a corner, where they settle.

For a moment, she looks around. People at the other tables. The room itself—rustic, with exposed rafters and whitewashed masonry.

It reminds her of her parents’ house, where she was born.

Not wanting to be trapped in the past, she turns her attention to smaller things—the tabletop peeling at one end, where the cloth doesn’t quite cover it.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

She glances at him as if she doesn’t understand the question.

‘I’m fine… why?’

‘I don’t know. You look more relaxed… How was it back there? I mean, in the cemetery?’

She closes her eyes, searching for an answer, perhaps convincing herself.

‘It was a farewell to a small part of my life experience. Something that had a beginning, a middle, and an end. But the feeling you’re left with is the same as when you read a book and the ending isn’t what you expected. You have to accept it—it’s already been written. There’s no way to change it…’

She opens her eyes to find him scratching his stubble, absorbed in her.

The moment disperses as the waiter brings their wine.

She drinks it eagerly, then feels embarrassed. But his eyes are not on her—they are somewhere across the room. He sips his drink quietly.

Someone changes the music in the box. It floats through the air, bringing a sense of longing to Alexandra. Images of the past—Martin, the cottage…

She drinks more wine…

‘The food is taking a while,’ he remarks.

She shrugs, glancing at him. His calloused hand holds the glass, which seems small compared to the size of his hand. He holds it carefully—if he squeezed, it might break.

She recalls his hand when he touched hers last night, when he placed it on her shoulder, and an intrusive, inconvenient thought makes her imagine what it would be like if he touched the rest of her body.

Her attention drifts to his stubble. She imagines it scratching her face, her neck, her back. His lips pressing intensely against hers, making them swell.

How she has missed these sensations since Martin left.

She sighs. Why am I thinking these things? It must be the music that triggered this. Or the wine. What is happening to me?

‘Are you alright’' he asks with a curious look.

‘Yes, I am…’ she replies, fanning herself with her hand and smiling awkwardly.

A bulky, bald man with red cheeks brings their meal.

She orders another glass of wine.

Philippe winks at her. ‘Well, you can. I’m the one driving…’

They eat in quiet companionship. She realises she isn’t as hungry as she thought, leaving some on her plate. Philippe, in contrast, eats every last bite.

The music changes and changes. She drinks more…

At some point, her tongue loosens. She starts talking about herself in a way she has never dared before—with anyone. Not even with Martin. Especially not with him.

Could it have been my mistake? she wonders. But what good would it have done? I would never have stayed with him, anyway.

‘You know,’ she says, ‘I used to hope that Martin would propose to me.’

‘You mean, marry him?’

‘Kind of… To at least be his woman. The kind who waits for her man to arrive home from work.’ She inspects the room. ‘I hope no feminists are here to hear this… I was raised to be that kind of woman.’

‘To stay home, looking after everything?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘Well, he never asked me. And now I know why…’

‘So, if a man proposed to you… asked you to look after him… you would accept?’

‘If I loved him, yes…’

Philippe’s mouth twitches into a chuckle.

‘What?’ she exclaims.

‘Nothing. Just a thought crossed my mind…’ He adds, ‘What could a man do for you to love him?’

She pulls her head back, wide-eyed at the question.

Then inhales. ‘I don’t know how to answer that…’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s very personal. Sorry, I think I've said too much…’

‘Anything, please…’ His hand touches her arm. She trembles and is aware that he notices. She doesn’t move. His hand moves over hers, stroking it.

His eyes fixed on hers.

She feels intensely warm—her body, her face—like she is sitting inside the fire itself, though she is not that close to the hearth.

Around them, the buzz of the tavern dims to a murmur. The music still plays, but it feels far away, as if the world has pulled back to give them space.

Philippe breaks her reverie.

‘We should go. It’s getting late...’

She concedes.

He rises first, and as she stands, his hand finds the small of her back.

Outside, the cold air hits her face, and she is grateful for it.

The drive home is different. The shifts she had been feeling lately have taken a step forward. Within her. Between them.

They have reached a point where one cannot move backwards, and neither knows how to proceed next—or what will happen next.

Everything depends on emotion. On impulse.

What is kept inside and wants to flourish, in her case.

What might be discovered, in his case. Or what she imagines.

The landscape rolls past in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one.

It is the silence of two people waiting for something they cannot yet name.

Nonetheless, it is starting to take shape. A texture. Not yet tangible, but there.

When he pulls up outside her cottage, he doesn’t kill the engine immediately, leaving it pulsing. Like their hearts, in expectation...

‘Would you mind if I visited you sometime soon?’

‘I’d like that,’ she replies.

The words come inside now hover on her lips, but she withholds them.

Not this evening...

‘I’ll be staying at the hotel,’ he says. ‘See you tomorrow, perhaps...’

She offers a sheepish smile. ‘Perhaps...’

Tomorrow she’ll be working but she doesn’t say so...

As she unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door, an image flickers through her mind—Martin naked, lying in the hotel bed...

This time, she thinks, if something like this happens, I’m not going to run away.

She steps out. He waits for her to reach the gate, walk up the path to the porch, unlock the door, and turn on the lights—only then does he pull away.

She watches his car until it disappears into the darkness, and then looks up at the sky.

It’s clear, starry. The air, very cold…

But not fog tonight. Like a sign that it has lifted from her life as well.

The promise Martin left unfulfilled had become a sealed room.

He did not break the door down. He simply offered her a window.

A new possibility. A new path to be taken.