The morning was soft, barely there, like a memory fading at the edges.
The sky outside my window was a pale wash of gray-blue, the kind that slips quietly between night and day and lingers just long enough to make you wonder if dawn ever truly arrives. The branches of the trees swayed gently in the wind, scattering amber leaves like whispers that fell slowly to the ground, swirling in restless circles before settling on the earth.
I lay still beneath the thin blanket, feeling the chill of the room crawl beneath my skin. The house was silent, but not empty. It was full of the things we don't say — the kind of silence that stretches too long and fills every corner with shadows, a presence heavier than absence. I could feel it in the creak of the floorboards, the faint hum of the heater, the way the light shifted as it moved through the windows.
The air smelled of damp wood and old paper, a scent that somehow made the walls feel alive, like they held stories just waiting to be remembered.
Somewhere deep inside me, something ached — a hollow space carved out by loss and time. The kind of ache that doesn't shout but seeps quietly, slowly, until it becomes a part of you. I reached out with trembling fingers and traced the edge of the blanket, feeling the rough fabric catch beneath my skin, grounding me in the here and now.
I wasn't sure how long I lay there, suspended between sleep and waking, between past and present. When I finally opened my eyes, the room was still bathed in the pale light of early morning. The sketchbook on the floor caught my eye, its pages fluttering slightly in the faint breeze that slipped through the cracked window.
The last drawing I made stared back at me — a boy's face, half-finished, eyes shadowed and distant. I ran my fingers over the rough pencil marks, trying to remember the feeling that had inspired the lines. The face was familiar, but the memory of it slipped away like smoke.
I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake the house. Each step across the floor felt like a secret, a soft promise whispered only to myself.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a pale pool of light and shadow. The old wooden table bore the weight of years, worn smooth by hands I could no longer count. I sat down, pulling the thin blanket of memory tighter around me as the silence settled in again.
The window above the sink framed the garden — wild and overgrown now, leaves tangled in a riot of reds and golds, branches reaching toward the sky like desperate fingers. Beyond the trees, the lake lay still and dark, a mirror reflecting a world that felt just out of reach.
I reached for the pencil on the table and flipped open the sketchbook again. The blank page welcomed me like an old friend, its emptiness a quiet invitation.
Outside, a crow called, a sudden, sharp sound that cut through the stillness. I closed my eyes, letting the echo settle in the hollow spaces of the house and inside me.
It was strange, the way grief folded itself around the small things — the creak of a door, the scent of rain on dry leaves, the way a shadow falls just so in the corner of a room. It was all the things I hadn't known to miss until they were gone.
I tried to draw again, but the lines blurred and shifted beneath my pencil like a half-remembered dream. The boy's face teased me — always on the edge of recognition but never quite clear. I wanted to understand, to capture something real, but it felt like chasing a ghost.
A knock at the door startled me, soft and uncertain. My heart jumped in my chest, and I nearly dropped the pencil.
"Mom?" I called, voice trembling.
She appeared in the doorway, her eyes tired but steady. She carried a mug of tea, the steam rising in lazy spirals, and set it down gently beside me.
"Good morning," she said softly, sitting down without a word.
We shared the quiet, the kind of silence that held more meaning than words. Outside, the wind picked up, stirring the leaves into a restless dance. The house seemed to breathe with us, alive with memories and the weight of things unsaid.
"Do you think he's still here?" I asked suddenly, barely louder than a whisper.
Mom's eyes met mine, filled with the same fragile hope and aching uncertainty.
"Sometimes," she said. "In the spaces between moments. In the places we least expect."
The day stretched on, slow and gentle, like the fading light of autumn itself. I wandered through the garden, my fingers brushing over the tangled branches and the soft carpet of leaves. The world felt fragile, suspended between seasons, caught in a quiet turning.
At the edge of the lake, I paused, watching the water ripple in the soft breeze. The surface shimmered like glass, reflecting the gray sky and the twisted silhouette of the trees. I imagined the boy standing there, waiting — a shadow slipping between worlds, caught in the amber glow of falling leaves.
The ache inside me bloomed, sweet and sharp, like the last rose of summer trembling in the cold. I closed my eyes and whispered his name into the wind.
"Soren."
The word lingered in the air, a fragile promise, a question unanswered.
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with strokes of pink and gold, I knew the autumn was not just a season of endings. It was the beginning of something — a slow unraveling of shadows, a journey into the spaces where love and loss intertwine.
And somewhere in the quiet turning of the world, I would find him.