After hours spent in deep meditation, the dream memories mercifully faded into ghostly tendrils, though they left traces of melancholy in their wake. With the sunrise approaching, she left the ocean with reluctance and made her way back to the manor. Navy blouse and dark-wash jeans, waterlogged and spotted with sand, clung to her skin with unpleasantness that barely penetrated her senses. The surf pulled at her every step and she nearly heeded their call for a final time, sinking into the waves, going out as far as she desired and-
down down down
reaching clawing
lungs filled with salt
Not tonight - perhaps tomorrow.
Her clove cigarettes were right where she'd left them on the deck. One went delicately between her lips, fingers moving on their own accord to light it. Bare damp feet padded across the wood as she leaned over the railing, smoke curling into the sky from her nose with a slow exhale.
She dreaded sleep, had half the mind to avoid it and half the mind to see how close to sunrise she could dare to see.
The sound of an approaching vehicle was hardly an event, it was likely to be one of her hired people come to care for the house. It wasn't Tuesday, though, so they were early. Unless she'd rescheduled? The occasional thing slipped her memory since her return, and she was disinterested in investigating how she'd forgotten trivial matters like a rescheduled housecleaning.
Her mind turned back toward the ocean and the smoke in her mouth, paying little attention to the sound of the car's engine stopping. It wasn't until the door opened and closed that the small hairs standing straight at the back of her neck demanded her attention. Tension curled in her gut - when would these haunting feelings cease? The fingers that held the clove cigarette quivered gently, drawing her attention to the glowing tip.
Ridiculous. It was just the housekeeper.
When the housekeeper did not knock on the door as expected, an inexplicable flutter of fear went through her chest. In the small moment while crushing the cigarette into the ashtray, the need to fly back toward the ocean overcame her with such a force that nearly sent her stumbling forward. With a frown and all of her effort placed in quelling this ridiculous flight response, she turned toward the glass door to glare at the presumptuous housekeeper.
But there was a man in her house.
Anger drove her toward the door - how dare an intruder, practically a fledge, enter her home? The glass door slid open with her mental force and she stepped inside toward him.
With an unwavering voice, she addressed the trespasser. "Who are you - get out of my house!" As soon as she finished speaking, the desire to run increased tenfold and she involuntarily flinched against it. She did not notice the slight tremor in her hands - too focused on ignoring the terror gripping her chest.
Why was he so familiar?