The Stranger

Dawning Eyes.

The days that followed that night all were filled with shaded skies, persistent drizzling of unremitting snowstorm and an unconscious man at Grace's care. Nothing but his nerves had improved by the end of the third day and the cut on his chest had become somewhat less animated.

It was on fourth day, that sun dared a venture outside. Bright and brighter. The snow clad town had amplified the skylight by tenfold, making it all too luminous and all too loud to not compete a picture of heaven.

Outside, the town was swarming with noisy life.

Inside, Grace was nervously flitting through the pages of her father's notebook while stirring the soup in the fireplace of her kitchen. A freshly baked loaf of bread was there upon the centre table infusing a sweet aroma in the early winter air.

It was a desperate trial at making a concoction that could theoretically hasten the healing.

Grace shut the book, resigned and tasted a spoonful of her cuisine. It was a warm, gentle taste on her tongue and bearable to throat.

The stranger from nights ago was asleep right now but he was improving. In the morning today, when Grace had entered his room for a quick look, he had stirred from the slightest noise, woke up into a nimble delirium and had asked for water. Thereafter, he passed out again, weak and restless. On examination, though, Grace had detected a slight flush over his skin_ very low grade of fever to cause her to worry but merely to be safe, Grace had put a wet rag over his forehead to bring his temperature down.

She arranged a tray of bread and soup and carried it to the guest room. Then, placing the tray on the bedside table, she seated herself on the nearby stool.

Deep in sleep, he was a sight easy on eyes.

His identity evaded Grace_ the way he was elegant even while ailing. And yet, for last three days, no knock had echoed her door with someone asking for him.

This man_ this stranger_ was not a man who would crowd tap-house.

Reaching for the wet towel cloth on his forehead, Grace gently removed it; wondering in process that she was not even privy of his name and how precisely could she wake him up now without having to hold or address him. She realized she did not need to anymore. The moment she touched his forehead, he stirred.

Slowly, very slowly, two most beautiful blue eyes parted open. So deep.

Melancholic.

Grace was stuck by the fact that those eyes reminded her of frozen sea at the same time while they reflected blue of blazing edges. Nor did it pass unwondered that such light colored eyes even existed, could exist.

His eyes wandered around in the room, a moment or two before they landed on Grace, and when that happened_ the hopeless miasma of all unheard noises stopped into a stunning quiet.

Grace inhaled softly.

"You-" His brows creased as the deep set of his eyes flickered intriguingly. "You are..."

"I am Grace. Grace Ellard. Three nights ago, I found you unconscious and injured, and took you in."

"You are...real?" He whispered, mostly to himself, but loud.

That was something unlooked for and Grace's spine straightened. Indeed, she was real! What was that question supposed to mean? But before she could go further on proving her point of view over her authenticity, the man spoke,

"I saw you." He paused for a heartbeat, "I thought I saw you in my dreams. You are the person...from my dream."

Grace tried to smile but lost her mental footing when he frowned slightly at her, eyes roving over her face. A mere crease along his brows made his eyes chillier than ever, the intensity a piercing high.