Page 98 of Haunt Me

“Thursday morning.”

“I swing by and drive you in.” He pauses, considering something. “Actually, you’ve got enough hours logged in. I think you’re ready to take the driver’s exam.”

“Already?”

“You’ve been practicing for weeks. You caught on quicker than most people I’ve taught.” He shrugs like it should’ve been obvious to me. “There’s no reason to wait on it.”

“Okay,” I say with a smile. “I’ll get it scheduled.”

Knox looks around like he’s unsure what to do next. “You’ll be alright out here?” he asks.

“I’ll be fine.”

“The nearest neighbor’s a mile off and the phone signal’s spotty past the tree line.” He says it like a warning, though I can’t tell if he’s warning me about the isolation or something else entirely.

“I lived in a city of eight million people my whole life and never once felt settled. I think I’m going to enjoy the quiet.”

“We’ll see.” He offers me a small smile and turns toward the door. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

“I will. Promise.”

He pauses on the porch a moment longer than the goodbye requires, glancing back at the cottage like he’s checking on something only he can see, before finally heading for the truck.

After Knox leaves, the cottage goes quiet. A breeze slips through the room, cool against my arms, even though every window is shut, and the air outside is perfectly still. It should probably unsettle me. It doesn’t. The quiet that follows feels less like being alone and more like being kept company. Like the house just let out a breath it had been holding since long before I got here.

I wander into the kitchen, mostly to give my hands something to do, and start going through the cupboards the way you do in any new place, cataloging what’s mine to work with. Except none of it feels like starting from nothing the way I expected it to.

A drawer of spices half used, someone’s handwriting on masking tape labeling the ones that came from bulk bins instead of store shelves. Two coffee mugs hang on the same hook, side by side.

There’s a whole life here waiting for someone to either finish it or clear it away. Instead of feeling like I’m intruding on it, I feel like I’m stepping into a place already set for me. I leave the mismatched mugs exactly where I found them and keep the spices in the order somebody else chose.

None of it feels like caretaking somebody else’s home. It feels more like picking up in the middle of something, like I’ve done this before, in this kitchen, though I know for a fact I haven’t. I don’t know why it feels that way. I just know I don’t want to question it too hard, in case questioning makes the feeling go away.

I make tea, mostly to have something to do with my hands, and carry it with me while I wander the rest of the cottage, meeting the place properly now that I’m alone in it.

Everywhere I look, there’s more of the same feeling from the kitchen. A stack of records by a turntable. A reading chair angled just slightly toward the window. None of this should feel familiar. All of it does anyway.

My suitcase is just inside the bedroom door where Knox left it. I grab it, ready to unpack, and stop short, my attention drawn to the nightstand.

There’s a book, a worn paperback left face-down the way you leave something when you fully intend to pick it back up in a minute. It’s a light, sweet romance novel, maybe forty pages from the end.

I don’t know why my chest goes tight looking at it. It shouldn’t mean anything, but something about the way it’s sitting there, unfinished, makes my throat close up over a grief that isn’t even mine to carry.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and pick it up anyway.

The second it’s in my hands, warmth spreads up through my fingers, so sudden and specific it startles me. The pages fall open on their own to the bookmarked spot.

She never got the chance to finish it.

I know I want to be the one to finish it—for her. Leaving it unfinished feels like leaving her unfinished, too, and I’m not willing to do that to a stranger’s memory. Not in her own house.

For now, I set it down on the nightstand exactly the way I found it. I’ll start it tonight.

The latch on my suitcase sticks a little, and I wrestle it open before sorting through the clothes. I fold what needs folding and put them in the dresser drawers. Then I hang the rest in the closet, shutting the door behind the last armful.

There’s a fresh set of sheets and blankets folded on the foot of the bed. I busy myself making the bed, tucking the corners of the sheets and smoothing the quilt over the top.

By the time I’m done, the room looks like somewhere I live instead of somewhere I’m passing through.