Where Have You Been Hiding
First, the gloves went missing. Then, the keyring. After that, an old scarf. At first, it could have been dismissed as age, absentmindedness, or exhaustion. But when the sixth item vanished that month—a sewing box always kept on the dresser—Margaret Whitmore could stand it no longer. She sank into her armchair with a heavy sigh, fingers trembling not from fear but from frustration. It was as if someone unseen was carefully unpicking the threads of her small, familiar world.
“Fine, let’s play,” she said aloud, her voice sharp as a blade, carrying defiance rather than worry.
The flat stayed silent. Only the grandfather clock in the hall marked time with stubborn precision. Margaret had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had passed suddenly in the sitting room, an unfinished joke on his lips, a half-drunk mug of tea in hand. Since then, she had changed nothing—not the worn-out sofa, not the creaky chair, not even his favourite chipped mug labeled “World’s Best Grandad.”
Her daughter visited twice a year, bringing groceries, grumbling about unanswered calls, then rushing off again. Her words were clipped, squeezed between work, family, and endless responsibilities. Margaret didn’t take offense. She understood—life moved fast, and her daughter had debts, children, a career. She accepted the bags of groceries and medicine with a smile, hugged her awkwardly, then lingered in the empty hallway long after the door clicked shut, until the silence became unbearable.
But a month ago, something strange had begun. Not suddenly, but subtly—like a tailor carefully altering the edges of fabric. First came the scent—dry herbs smouldering faintly, like in her grandmother’s country cottage. Then the drafts, curtains fluttering even with the windows shut. Shadows, too, slipped across walls without matching the light, as if someone unseen moved through the room, leaving no trace. The house seemed to breathe to a foreign rhythm.
Margaret said nothing. She only sat by the window more often, legs curled under her, a cooling cup of tea in hand, watching snow blanket the old courtyard where children once played. Memories surfaced—her father steadying her bicycle until she found her balance, winters in the ’70s huddled around a makeshift heater with her husband, laughing as they toasted bread on its lid, the night they bought their first telly and bickered over channels until they dozed off together.
Then things vanished. Small things first—a button, a handkerchief, a brooch. Then more—her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, an address book. Always without a trace, as if someone invisible was collecting pieces of her life, gently but persistently.
“Where have you been hiding?” she finally asked the emptiness one evening. Her voice echoed louder than expected, hanging in the air.
Then, from the kitchen—”Here.”
A whisper, soft as a child’s, but not frightening. Not cruel. Just unfamiliar, and therefore undeniably real.
She didn’t rush. She made tea, sipped it, waited. Stared at the rings in her cup, as though answers swirled there. Then she straightened and stepped into the kitchen. The door creaked, mirroring her hesitation. Everything was in place—the checkered tablecloth, the curtains, the pots on the shelf. But the air had shifted. The silence wasn’t empty; it hummed, as if holding its breath. A presence, almost tangible, yet warm as a faint touch.
“Who are you?” she asked firmly, unafraid, sensing no threat.
No answer came. Just a faint creak underfoot, like a step frozen mid-motion.
The next day, her old recipe notebook disappeared, full of outdated phone numbers. That evening, an unsigned postcard lay on the table, its message scribbled unevenly: “I’m here.”
From then on, they lived together—the other in the shadows, the flicker of curtains; Margaret in daylight, the kettle’s whistle, the clink of spoons. They didn’t speak. But one day, opening the cupboard, she found every missing item—neatly folded, as if cared for.
Then it struck her: this wasn’t a stranger. It was herself. The one she’d buried long ago—when her husband died, when her daughter left, when days blurred into grey. The one who sang to the radio, danced barefoot, scribbled poems on scrap paper and tucked them away. The one who’d slipped away with every “later,” every “not now.”
Margaret draped the old scarf around her shoulders. It smelled of lavender and time. Stepping onto the balcony, she lit a cigarette for the first time in a decade. The smoke curled into the sky, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the borrowed restraint.
Snow fell below, soft as whispers. In its glow, the city lights shimmered, as if the world itself murmured, “I’ve been waiting.”
*Where have you been hiding?* she wondered. *Here you are. Found.*
