The rain came down in torrents. Maybe it was a sign, warning me to stay right where I am. But, of course, once I thought of this, it was too late to turn back.
I know the area well. The house is fairly isolated, bordering on the mossy green forest, and a few trees are scattered sporadically throughout the yard. The yard was in much better condition when Charlie was alive, but now the grass and shrubbery have grown unkempt.
Only one light was on in the house. It was the kitchen light. I barely knew the woman at the table.
It had been 62 years, but I hadn't expected her to look so incredibly old. The skin hung off her bones in loose folds. It was soft and wrinkled looking…like much cured leather. Her hands shook slightly as she brought a spoon to her lips. Her hair had turned completely white. It was, thank God, not in the classic old lady poodle style, but was perched precariously on her head in a thick bun.
Never had I seen such a pathetic figure. She sat at the kitchen table with a small bowl of soup. She looked down at something on the table, and I noticed something.
A tear.
One, single tear inched its way down her face, getting caught up in a thick crease in her face next to her nose. She stood, slowly, joints stiff with rheumatism, and shuffled from the room, turning off the light as she went.
I waited a minute until I heard the bed springs creak. I eased open the back door and sat down in the recently vacated chair. What had made my beautiful Bella cry?
And then I saw. On the table, on top of the newspaper, was a picture. A picture of us, together. I allowed myself a small smile; she had found my hideout under her floorboards.
From upstairs, I heard a muffled sob.