Moonlit Promises

Scarlett Whitmore gripped the worn steering wheel of her old sedan as it rolled over the bumpy pavement, and the familiar streets of Hawthorne began to come into view. The trees arched overhead, their skeletal branches twisting like ancient guardians in the pale morning light. Scarlett hadn't been back in years, but as she crossed the town limits, a strange mix of relief and dread settled in her chest.

Cobblestone streets, ivy-covered cottages, this sort of mist, all sticking obstinately in groves and to buildings. Mist made alive, or else it breathed its secrets over the wall of silence and out of ear. She remembered her father, talking about the town in exactly those words, the words a place, where time, passed through fingers rather slowly; memories, too clung about the mist.

Time however passed.

The familiar rumble of tires against old stone brought her back to reality as she parked in front of the modest two-story house her mother still called home. She stepped out of the car, inhaling the sharp, pine-scented air, trying to calm the knot of nerves twisting in her belly.

Clara Whitmore was at the kitchen sink when Scarlett came in. Her hands were always moving, steaming great kettles of coffee, and she rose to look up at the door's opening. Her bright gold hair was streaked with sunlight. She was older-looking now; lines of motherhood, resilience, and anxiety creased her face.

Scarlett?

She crackled a little as her voice broke, but unmistakably a warm, rich sound.

Mom, Scarlett whispered, her throat dry.

In Clara's face, shock cleft for excitement; it took less than half the time to blink for her to bridge their bodies between them. My girl, she said fiercely to her embrace Scarlett.

Scarlett closed her eyes, this moment of safety, this moment of familiarity, she was allowed. Mother's perfume scent, lavender, and vanilla, went round her. She was coming home in the only way that would matter, though everything about the journey felt uneasy.

She could feel her mother tugging back to look at her; a whisper barely audible. I missed you.

I missed you, too, Scarlett said, feeling her voice break a little.

The house had been the same way she remembered it; warm, small, and full of all the sounds that life produces. The smells were of fresh-bread baking, and old wood that is so old it roots you firmly in the memory. Her shoulders drooped as she rested her suitcase on the bench beside the hall table but that sense would not last.

His absence haunted the rooms of that house the photographs on the mantelpiece, the empty chair at dinner, the way certain rooms felt colder when she stepped into them. Scarlett hadn't seen him in years. His name wasn't spoken much at home, but his absence was always there, a presence that could never truly be ignored.

You're home early, her mother said, putting down her coffee and reaching for her apron. 

I drove, Scarlett said, pulling off her coat and running her hands through her hair. Wanted to get here sooner.

Clara gave her a knowing smile. Well, you're always welcome, sweetheart Always.

Scarlett nodded, but it wouldn't stay down. She couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't coming to visit; something felt off about Hawthorne too quiet, too familiar, but at the same time, not the same. There are years of memories here, buried secrets, and questions she couldn't escape.

She forced herself to keep her eyes on the moment: her mother's voice, the smell of coffee.

Let's eat, and you can settle in, Clara said. I've got a fresh batch of bread in the oven. You're going to need it after that drive.

Scarlett smiled weakly. Sounds perfect.

The day went by silently, in a rhythm that could be the beat of the heart. She unpacked her things, helped her mother do their chores, and tried to push away the creeping sense of unease nudging at the edges of her mind. Hours at Hawthorne felt odd, as if memories clotted up the air, making breathing tough.

The evening sky had begun to bleed the sun low down and paint it weakly orange over misty woods as Scarlett stood by the window of her room, wrapped tight in her arms, watching how shadows danced between trees. He must have been there in memories; he was certainly there in photographs, but the absence loomed heavy.

She wondered how many stories were locked beneath the surfaces of this town. How many secrets her father had carried?

Scarlett had grown up with whispered tales about the Whitmore family, their history intertwined with the very roots of Hawthorne. But those stories were always fragments: half-truths, assumptions, quiet voices in the dark. She didn't know what was real or what had been twisted into fiction by time and memory.

And that unsettled her.

Knocking at the door came just when she was drifting into abstract thought. Scarlett whirled around, a little frightened. She caught her mother's eye; her mother sat on the couch, hands clasped tight around a ceramic coffee mug.

Who could that be? Scarlett whispered.

Clara shrugged, furrowing her brow slightly. Maybe someone from town. Go ahead and answer it, darling.

Scarlett paused for a second, then she threw on her coat and began to move towards the door. Knock. This time, sharp. She was running, her heart pounding as she opened it, the cool misty air rushing into the house.

And there he was.

Standing on the porch, the figure there was Eliot Mercer dressed in black, sharp-featured, windblown in hair, hands deep into his pockets, a calm, unreadable gaze. Scarlett's heart sank. She hadn't expected to see him not now, not here.

His gaze met hers, and time seemed to freeze for one instant.

Scarlett Whitmore, he said smoothly, his voice low and steady.

She froze in the doorway, not sure whether to step back or not.

Can we talk?

She gulped in the air.

There was something about the words, something about his presence that sort of carried a feeling of familiarity yet danger.

Scarlett froze, debating a moment.

Uh… sure, she managed.

But already, even as she was speaking, Scarlett knew her return to Hawthorne was about to take a very different path.

She didn't know exactly how or why but felt somehow that the shadows cast by the trees seemed closer.