Where Have You Hidden
At first, it was the gloves that vanished. Then, the keyring. After that, the old scarf. She might have brushed it aside, blamed age, distraction, weariness. But when the sixth thing disappeared in a month—her sewing box, always perched on the dresser—Margaret Whitmore could take no more. She sank into a chair with a heavy sigh, fingers trembling not from fear, but fury, as though some unseen hand were unpicking the threads of her small, familiar world.
“Fine. Let’s play then,” she said aloud, her voice sharp as a blade, not anxious, but daring.
The flat stayed silent. Only the steady tick of the old clock on the wall marked time with stubborn precision. Margaret had lived alone these past nine years. Her husband had gone suddenly, right there in the parlour, a half-drunk cup of tea in his hand and an unfinished joke on his lips. After his passing, she’d changed nothing—the same worn sofa, the creaky chair, even his favourite mug, faded lettering still declaring “World’s Best Grandad.”
Her daughter visited twice a year, bearing groceries, scolding her for missed calls, then hurrying off. Her words were clipped, as though squeezed between work, family, endless obligations. Margaret never took offence. She understood. Her daughter had her own life now—a job, children, a mortgage. She accepted the bags of tinned goods and medicine, smiled, embraced her awkwardly, and lingered in the empty hallway long after the door had shut, until the silence grew unbearable.
But a month ago, something odd had begun. Not sudden, not sharp—as though someone was carefully reshaping her world, like a tailor trimming the edges of cloth. First came the scent—faint, like dried herbs smouldering in a corner, like her grandmother’s country cottage. Then the draughts. The curtains shivered even with the windows shut. And the shadows—they slid across the walls, their movements too slow, too deliberate, as though someone unseen crept just out of sight. The house breathed to a rhythm that wasn’t hers.
Margaret said nothing. She only sat by the window more often, legs tucked beneath her, cooling mug in hand, watching the snow settle on the old square below where children once played. She remembered her father steadying her bicycle until she found her balance. The winters in the nineties when she and her husband huddled around the heater during power cuts, laughing as they toasted bread on its hot lid. The night they bought their first television, bickering half the evening over which channel to watch before dozing off in each other’s arms.
Then the things went missing. First small things—a button, a handkerchief, an old brooch. Then more—her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, her address book. Gone without a trace, as though something unseen was plucking pieces of her life away, carefully but insistently.
“Where have you hidden?” she asked the emptiness one evening. Her voice echoed louder than she’d expected, hanging in the air.
And then, from the kitchen, came the reply: “Here.”
The voice was soft, almost childlike—not frightening, not unkind. Just not hers. And that, more than anything, sent a shiver through her.
She didn’t rush in. She brewed tea instead, sat, waited. Stared into the cup as though the answer might ripple to the surface. Then she stood, straightened her shoulders, and stepped into the kitchen. The door creaked, as if sharing her doubts. Everything was in its place—the oilcloth-covered table, the curtains, the pots on the shelf. But the air had shifted. The silence wasn’t empty; it hummed, as though someone was holding their breath. A presence, almost tangible, but warm—like the ghost of a touch.
“Who are you?” she asked firmly, without fear, as though she already knew no harm would come.
No answer came. Just the faintest creak of the floorboards, as though someone had taken a single step and stilled.
The next day, her old notebook vanished, the one filled with outdated recipes and phone numbers. That evening, returning from the balcony, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no name. Just two words scrawled in uneven handwriting: “I’m here.”
From then on, they lived as two. The other—in the shadows, the corners, the flutter of the curtains. Margaret—in the daylight, the whistle of the kettle, the clink of teaspoons. They never spoke. But one day, opening the cupboard, she found all the missing things. Neatly stacked, clean, as though someone had gathered them with care.
And then it struck her. It wasn’t a stranger. It was her. The one she’d forgotten, pushed away when her husband died, when her daughter left, when the days blurred into grey. The one who had once sung along to the guitar, danced to the radio, scribbled poetry on scraps of paper and tucked them into drawers. The one who’d slipped away, one “later,” one “not now” at a time.
Margaret took the scarf, draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of lavender and time. She stepped onto the balcony. Lit a cigarette—first in ten years. The smoke curled upward, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the years of restraint.
Below, the snow fell. Soft, almost weightless. In its glow, the city lights twinkled, as though the world itself whispered, “I’ve been waiting.”
Where have you hidden? she thought. Here you are. Found.
