First, the gloves vanished. Then the keyring. Next, her old scarf. She might have brushed it off—blamed age, distraction, weariness. But when the sixth thing disappeared in a month—the sewing box, always perched on the dresser—Margaret Hayes couldn’t ignore it any longer. She sank into her armchair, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from anger, as though the unseen hand of the world was slowly unpicking the seams of her quiet life.
“All right then, let’s play,” she said aloud, and her voice held no fear—only defiance, sharp as a knife’s edge.
The flat was silent. Only the antique clock in the hall ticked stubbornly on, measuring time with mechanical precision. Margaret had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had left her suddenly, right there in the sitting room, a half-drunk cup of tea in his hand and an unfinished joke on his lips. After he was gone, she changed nothing—the same worn sofa, the creaky chair, even his favourite mug still sat on the shelf, its faded print reading “World’s Best Grandad”.
Her daughter visited twice a year. She brought groceries, complained about unanswered calls, then hurried away, her words clipped between work, family, endless responsibilities. Margaret never resented it. She understood—her daughter had her own life, her own burdens. She accepted the bags of tinned soup and painkillers, smiled, hugged her awkwardly, and stood in the empty hallway long after the door had closed, listening until the silence grew unbearable.
But a month ago, something had shifted. Not all at once, but slowly, as though the fabric of her world were being carefully unpicked. First came the scent—faint, herbal, like dried lavender burning in the grate, just as it had in her grandmother’s cottage. Then came the draughts. The curtains shivered, even with the windows shut. And the shadows—they slid along the walls, out of time with the light, as though something unseen moved just beyond sight. The house seemed to breathe differently, out of step with her.
Margaret never spoke of it. She only sat by the window more often, knees tucked up, cooling tea in hand, watching the snow fall over the old courtyard where children used to play. She remembered—her father steadying her bicycle until she found her balance, the winters in the ’90s when the power cut out for days and she and her husband huddled by the gas fire, laughing while they toasted bread on the radiator. The first television they ever bought, dozing off mid-argument over what to watch, pressed close beneath a blanket.
Then the vanishing began. Small things first—a button, a handkerchief, an old brooch. Then bigger losses—her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, her address book. Gone without a trace, as though some unseen hand was plucking threads from the tapestry of her life.
“Where are you hiding?” she asked the empty air one evening. Her voice echoed back, louder than she intended, as though the walls had caught it and held it suspended.
Then, from the kitchen, a reply: “Here.”
The voice was soft, almost childlike—but not unkind. Just unfamiliar. And that was what sent shivers down her spine.
She didn’t rush in. She brewed tea, sat, waited. Studied the swirl of her cup as though the answer lay there. Then she stood, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the kitchen. The door groaned as though sharing her hesitation. Everything was in place—the Formica table, the faded curtains, the pots stacked neatly on the shelf. Yet the air was different. The silence was alive, breath held, presence humming just beyond perception. Warm, like a ghost of a touch.
“Who are you?” she asked, steady, unafraid, as though she already knew no harm would come.
No answer. Just the faintest creak of the floorboards, like a step taken, then silenced.
The next day, her old recipe book vanished, full of outdated phone numbers and instructions for dishes she never cooked. That evening, returning from the balcony, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no signature. Just two words, scrawled in shaky handwriting: *I’m here.*
From then on, they lived side by side. The other—in the trembling curtains, the shifting shadows. Margaret—in the clatter of the kettle, the chime of teaspoons. They never spoke. But one day, opening the cupboard under the stairs, she found every lost item—arranged neatly, clean, as though someone had tended to them with care.
And then she knew—this was no stranger. It was *her*. The part of herself she had buried away—when her husband died, when her daughter left, when the days blurred into grey. The woman who once sang along to the radio, scribbled poems in margins, tucked dreams into drawers. The one who faded slowly with every *later*, every *not now*.
Margaret took the scarf and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of peppermint and years gone by. She stepped onto the balcony. Lit a cigarette—first in a decade. The smoke curled upward, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the silence she had grown used to.
Below, snow fell. Soft, almost weightless. In its glow, the city lights shimmered like whispered words: *I’ve been waiting.*
Where have you been hiding? she wondered. Ah. There you are. Found at last.
