Walking up the familiar path and knocking on the door, I nervously fingered the note I had discovered in my mail this afternoon.
I'm so sorry I have not being able to spend much time with you as of late. Come by around seven this evening and I'll have supper prepared for us. -William
By "as of late" he must have meant the past week or so. We hadn't seen each other at all save a couple pass-bys in the hall, although each time one or both of us was hurrying to some place or another. Not that I really noticed—or minded—the time alone: I was an incredibly busy reaper myself, and by the end of the day, I was more than fine with not having to deal with any other living creatures—reaper or human or otherwise.
The door swung open, and the proprietor of the house stood before me, dressed in a white top and black trousers—different than what he had worn to work, and a cooking apron. His lips formed a small smile upon seeing me. "Josette. You're early. Come in, please." He stepped aside to allowed me to pass, then shut the door behind me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait for just a while longer while I finish making supper." He looked torn between annoyance that I had come sooner—although only fifteen minutes sooner—than he expected and happiness at my being there.
"That's fine. Could I be of any assistance…?" I already knew what his answer would be, though.
"No, no, I've got it. Go relax, please." He excused himself and promptly returned to the kitchen. So, I made my way to the sitting room. Candles lit up the room, but the fireplace was dark; it was too warm outside to warrant lighting a fire. I found I was rather anxious about finally having some alone time with William, and I couldn't sit still for very long. I paced for a couple minutes, then made my way back to the hallway.
Far to my right, past the entryway, noises emanated from the kitchen, so I crept out of the room and started down the hall to my left. Out of sheer curiosity, I carefully opened each door I came to and poked my head into the rooms. One was an office, which contained a desk with many neat stacks of paper on it and several filled bookshelves lining one wall. The other looked to be another bedroom, but it was being used for storage. At the end of the hallway a stairway carried my to the second floor. The upstairs hallway was lit by a single wall candelabra at its far end. I paused on the top step. I couldn't quite place it, but the corridor looked almost...familiar...for some reason. I'd been upstairs once before, but such a feeling hadn't struck me then. Something about the flooring, or maybe the wallpaper, the colour of which I knew to be a maroon but could not discern in the low lighting. Maybe I had more recollection of the details of my previous visit than I'd realised at the time.
I took a hesitant step, cautious to avoid creaking floorboards, which would give away my investigating. Across from the stairwell was the washroom, which looked as seldomly used as ever. The basin didn't wasn't even filled with water. After, there were the two other bedrooms, both the size of the one downstairs. The farthest of the two was completely empty. I reached the end of the hallway and turned back, hesitating at the one remaining door, which I knew would lead to William's bedroom—the one room of the house, save perhaps for the attic and cellar, I had yet to see.
I'll just take a peak. I pushed the door open, freezing when the hinges squeaked. The hallway was dead silent, though, and no noise came from downstairs, save the faint clamoring of my lover in the kitchen. I slid inside, and looked around. The right wall gave way to another doorway, which upon further inspection led to another bathroom; the largest of the three it may have been, but just as simply decorated as the one downstairs. Beside the bed, which was covered in a grey quilt, the pillows in white covers, the room's only furnishings were a dresser and a mirror, and a wooden side table on the near side of the bed. The floor was bare, as were the walls, minus the mirror.
The only decorative item I had noticed in the entire house was a picture in a frame on the side table. I walked up to it and, without picking it up, studied it. Once I realised what it was an image of, I gasped, and blushed a little. It was a beautiful sketch of a couple kissing, obviously just married, based on their apparel, and obviously a younger William and his bride, who must have been the elusive Clara. My heart sunk a little at finally seeing an image of her: she was flawlessly beautiful. A few curly blonde strands escaped her bun and cascaded elegantly down her back. She wore a silver cross on a chain around her slender neck, and her rounded, but sculpted, face and delicate features wore great bliss from her husband's touch.
My shame at intruding upon this very personal memory was momentarily overpowered by great envy. No wonder he loved her enough to choose suicide over a life without her. She was physically perfect, and he hadn't a bad thing to say about her, or so I've gathered from the very little he actually had told me of his dead wife. How could he possibly have feelings for someone like me? I'm not beautiful or kind—goodness knows I'm not a nice person—or even close to being perfect in any way.
Maybe he doesn't.
I sank onto his bed, my eyes stinging, my face hot with anger and sadness and confusion. In the midst of feeling sorry for myself, my eyes fell onto a small wooden box that was tucked behind the picture. Curiosity overtook me again, and I reached for it. Within rested a ring—the kind made from the handle of an old spoon. It didn't take very long for the realisation to hit that it was the same silver band which accented Clara's finger in the image. I don't know why, but as I stared at it in wonder, the urge to put it on my own hand crossed my mind. I would have, too, as inappropriate as it would have been to do so, had the noise of a voice being cleared not snapped me back to my good senses. The open box—with the ring inside—nearly fell to the ground when I jumped up, scrambling to smooth my skirt and the bed's quilt, before I realised I wouldn't be able to cover up what I had been doing.
My face burned in shame as William walked up to me and grabbed the ring from my hand. "I believe that's mine." He gazed at me in silence for a very long time, his face unreadable.
"I—I should go." I stuttered, making my way to the door.
I half expected him to stop me again, but to my surprise—and heartbreak—he uttered "Yes. I think that would be best." He didn't even turn to watch me leave, and I was forced to escort myself out of the house, tears pouring down my face before I could escape into the night's numbing blackness.
