**Diary Entry**
I stepped into the cottage and frozeId seen this place before. In dreams. And the woman standing before me, her face blurred but her eyes burning like embers, was the same one who haunted my childhood nights. Back then, Id wake screaming, trembling at the sight of her, a spectre with no face, only those glowing eyes. Mum would pull me close, whisper prayers, and hold me until the fear dissolved.
No one visits her anymore. The kids these days chase after sweets and pocket money, not the dry scones she used to offer. Even her homemade gin isnt strong enough to tempt mostexcept old Fred, the neighbour. When hes had one too many at the pub, hell stumble to her door, slurring,
“Scatter the wheat, bless the year, pour us a drink, Martha love!”
She does, though she hates the way he prattles on. One night, drunk and cruel, he sneered,
“Everyone knows, Martha. You gave your grandson away. And now he haunts your dreams, dont he? Thats why your eyes glow at nightfear!”
She grabbed him by the collar, shoved him out, screaming, “Never come back!”
He didnt. Maybe shame stopped him. Or fear.
But he was right. The boy *does* visit her dreams. Always on the doorstep, never stepping inside, his face hiddenjust those eyes, bright as lanterns.
—
The sun was high when she sat alone at the table, pouring herself a drink. A holiday, after all. Outside, the dog barked, and the door creaked open. A stranger stood there, handsome, well-dressed.
“Blessings to your home. May I scatter the wheat?”
She stiffened. “Come in, then.”
His gaze darted around the room as he tossed grain for luck. She watched, wary. Was he a thief? If only Fred were here…
“Who are you looking for?”
“Youre Martha Whitaker?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband was Peter?”
“Dead now.”
“Your daughterLucy?”
She nodded, throat tight.
The stranger straightened. “Then Im your grandson. Victor.”
The room spun. Those eyes*the boy from her dreams*stared back at her. She swayed, but his hands steadied her.
“Dont be afraid. Ive no grudge. I just wanted to see where I came from.”
She sobbed as the story spilled outhow Lucy, young and foolish, fell pregnant before her wedding to Andrew, a soldier. How they hid her away, gave the baby up. How Andrew, years later, cursed them all when he found out.
Victor listened, then stood. “God be your judge. Not me.”
By the time she chased after him, his car was already vanishing in the snow.
—
Lucy had been an obedient girl. “Youll be a teacher,” her father insisted. “No marrying till youve finished school!”
But she met a boyJackwild and reckless. When she confessed shed marry another, he beat her black and blue. By the time Martha found her, swollen with child, it was too late.
“No one must know,” Martha hissed. They sent Lucy away to a private clinic, told the village she had meningitis. The babyVictorwas given to a childless couple, a doctor and his wife.
Lucy married Andrew, built a life. But when he learned the truth, he left, raging, “Even animals love their young! Youre monsters!”
Years passed. Lucy drifted between men, bitter. “You ruined my life,” shed snap at Martha. Then she vanished.
—
Victors hands were steady as he drove away.
After his adoptive father died, hed found medical recordsproof his mother could never have borne him. His adoptive mum, frail and fading, confessed everything.
Now he knew.
The cottage, the woman, the dreamsthey were real.
But the family whod loved him, raised him? *They* were his truth.
He wouldnt return.
And Martha? Shed live with her ghosts.
