Invisible Strings II

Chapter 4: A Flicker

Isadora pulled into the driveway just as the afternoon light began to thin into winter blue. The cottage stood quiet beneath a soft layer of snow, its stone chimney dark, its windows cold.
She sat for a moment with her hands resting on the steering wheel, exhaling until her breath fogged the glass.

She didn't want to get out. She also didn't want to leave. The cottage existed in that space now. Where grief pooled, but comfort did too.

Finally, she opened the door.

Snow crunched under her boots as she walked toward the front porch. The key turned easily, almost too easily, as if the house had been waiting.

The air inside was stale and still, frozen in time from the day she abandoned it. Minimal boxes. A few pieces of furniture they'd managed to move in. A blanket draped over the arm of the couch. A ceramic mug on the windowsill that she couldn't bring herself to look directly at.

Isadora slipped off her coat and hung it by the door. Her breath came out too quickly, too shallow. She pressed a hand to her sternum.

"Just breathe," she whispered, though her voice sounded far away.

She busied herself immediately. Routine was safer than memory.

She set down her briefcase. Kicked off her boots. Crossed the small room in deliberate steps.

The fireplace was cold, filled with the logs she'd stacked months ago, back when she thought she'd be lighting them beside Hannah. Isadora knelt, struck a match, and held it to the kindling. The flame took slowly, then bloomed. Warmth spread, soft and amber.

She sat back on her heels, watching the fire catch fully, the crackling wood filling the silence that felt too large for one person.

Once the fire settled into a steady glow, she stood and wrapped her arms around herself. Her eyes roamed the room, careful not to linger too long on anything that belonged to the life she lost.

And yet she saw everything.

The crooked curtain rod Hannah had insisted she'd fix. The half-burned lavender candle from Hannah's dorm, she wasn't allowed to have there. The piano bench pushed slightly askew, as if someone had just stood from it.

The quiet wrapped around her like a heavy shawl.

This place was supposed to be warmth, beginnings, laughter echoing against the beams. But without her, it was hollow. A skeleton of what should've been.

Isadora drifted into the small kitchen, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. The window above the sink framed the world outside in a blur of white. Snow wasn't just falling now; it was sweeping sideways, heavy and relentless, coating the trees in thick frosting, swallowing the road entirely.

A shiver traced her spine.

"Good timing," she murmured, fingertips resting against the cold glass. If she'd left campus even an hour later, she wouldn't have made it up the hill.

For a moment, she let herself watch the storm. Snowflakes spiraling, wind rattling the branches, nature swallowing sound until even the cottage felt isolated from the world.

Safe. Trapped. A little too quiet.

She pushed away from the window. The bedroom waited down the hall, dark and untouched. She flicked the light on and winced at the sight.

The mattress lay bare, except for a plastic-wrapped bed set sitting neatly at the foot... still unopened. Still waiting. Her throat tightened.

Hannah should've been here with her. They should've unwrapped it together, argued over sheet colors, laughed at the way Isadora tried to read the instructions like it was a survival manual.