Where You Hid
First, the gloves went missing. Then, the set of keys. After that, an old scarf. At first, she could brush it off—blame age, forgetfulness, fatigue. But when the sixth thing vanished in a month—the sewing box that always sat on the dresser—Margaret Whitmore couldn’t take it anymore. She sank into her chair with a heavy sigh. Her fingers trembled, not from fear but anger, as if someone invisible were unpicking the seams of her small, familiar world, thread by thread.
“Well, if that’s how it is, let’s play,” she said aloud, her voice sharp, not with worry but challenge.
The flat stayed silent. Only the old clock on the wall ticked stubbornly, measuring time with its reliable rhythm. Margaret had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had gone suddenly, right there in the sitting room, with a half-finished cup of tea in his hand and an incomplete joke on his lips. After his death, she changed nothing—the same worn sofa, the same creaky chair, even his favourite mug remained, its faded “World’s Best Grandad” text still faintly visible.
Her daughter visited twice a year, bringing groceries, grumbling about unanswered calls, then rushing off again. Her words were clipped, squeezed between work, family, endless responsibilities. Margaret never took offence. She understood—her daughter had her own life, her own struggles. She accepted the bags of groceries and medicine, smiled stiffly, hugged awkwardly, then stood in the empty hallway long after the door had shut, the quiet pressing in around her.
But a month ago, something strange began. Not sudden, not obvious—just subtle shifts, like an unseen tailor trimming the edges of her world. First came the smell—faint, like dried herbs smouldering in a corner, like her grandmother’s country cottage. Then, the drafts. The curtains trembled even when the window was shut. And the shadows—sliding across the walls, out of sync with the light, as if someone unseen moved just out of sight. The house breathed with a rhythm that wasn’t hers.
Margaret said nothing. She just sat by the window more often, legs tucked under her, cold mug in hand, watching the snow fall outside. She remembered—her father holding her bike steady until she found her balance. The bitter winter of ’79, huddling around the stove with her husband, laughing as they tried to toast bread on the hot lid. The night they bought their first telly, arguing over channels until they fell asleep curled together.
Then things started disappearing. Small things first—a button, a handkerchief, an old brooch. Then bigger things—her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, her address book. Always without a trace, as if someone invisible were carefully lifting pieces of her life away.
“Where are you hiding?” she asked the emptiness one day. Her voice echoed louder than she expected, bouncing off the walls before fading.
Then, from the kitchen: “Here.”
The voice was quiet, almost childlike—not frightening, not cruel. Just foreign. And that made it real enough to chill her.
She didn’t rush in. She made tea, sat, waited. Stared at the swirling steam as if an answer might rise with it. Then she straightened her shoulders and walked slowly to the kitchen. The door creaked, hesitating with her. Everything was in place—the table with its oilcloth cover, the curtains, the pots on the shelf. But the air had changed. The quiet wasn’t empty—it was alive, like held breath. A presence, almost touchable, warm as a whisper.
“Who are you?” she asked firmly, without fear, as if she already knew no harm would come.
No answer came. Just a faint creak in the floorboards, like a step taken and then paused.
The next day, her old notebook—full of outdated recipes and phone numbers—was gone. That evening, coming in from the balcony, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no signature. Just two words, scrawled unevenly: *I’m here.*
From then on, they lived together. The other in the shadows, in the corners, in the flutter of curtains. Margaret in daylight, the kettle’s whistle, the clink of spoons. They didn’t speak. But one day, opening the cupboard under the stairs, she found all the missing things—folded neatly, clean, as if someone had gathered them with care.
And then she knew. It wasn’t an intruder. It was her. The one she’d forgotten, pushed away—when her husband died, when her daughter left, when days blurred into grey sameness. The one who’d once sung to the radio, danced in the kitchen, scribbled poems on scrap paper and hidden them in drawers. The one who’d faded slowly, lost to *later* and *not now*.
Margaret picked up 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. Smoke curled upward, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the years of restraint.
Below, snow fell—soft, almost weightless. In its glow, the city lights shimmered, as if the world itself whispered back: *I’ve been waiting.*
*Where were you hiding?* she thought. *Oh. Here you are. Found.*
