Moonlit Promises

 The mess of Scarlett's mind stilled with the coffee as she tried to bring herself into the hum of morning. The stillness of Hawthorne pressed down upon her like some heavy cloak, stifling yet somehow too familiarly so. 

Towns have always carried about an old air again not the air of age but more the air of memory itself remaining in the streets which were once worn, never quite leaving it off. 

 Now though with strange words echoing through her brain, everything had to live it never had; she carefully eyed the face of her daughter in the undertow, uncertainty hung in the air, but she asked not yet. 

She went, however to the day job; filling Scarlett's bowl full of oatmeal. Swimming her own drizzles of honey swirled them over, and sprinkled cinnamon on top. Many dozens were a success at this. Are you going to the market today? Clara asked, sliding a chair in and sitting down across from Scarlett. 

Scarlett looked up a little taken aback by the question but didn't display that all that much. She had always known how to read her daughter, and at this moment Scarlett was clearly fighting something she wasn't ready to speak of. 

Well, watch out, Clara said. Some of them weren't meant to be recalled. Scarlett's eyebrow shot up. "What do you mean?

There was a faint smile on Clara's face, touched by a colorless emotion. 

Scarlett's heart skipped a beat. Her mother's words were comforting, but only to layer over another degree of discomfort. This was, after all, the tide of their family's history in Hawthorne: something Clara never told Scarlett fully, a Whitmore puzzle meant to stay buried, full of pieces she was never supposed to find.

She had eaten the oatmeal, risen, washed the bowl, and gotten back to trying to pay attention to these minute, unambitious tasks that so far had filled up her day.

Even acting out though, she couldn't dislodge the stranger from her head or get the way his words slid under her skin.

I've been waiting for you, Scarlett Whitmore.

 She wanted to know things she did not even know to ask for.

The cracked pavement of Hawthorne welcomed her somehow like an old house welcomes someone back. The buildings with their windows dark as panes seemed to stare at her, like a silent sentry. 

Everything seemed to be holding its breath in that town. As she walked toward the market square, the nagging feeling at the back of her mind grew stronger. 

Was the stranger part of town history? Was he in any way tied to her father? The market square was not crowded at this hour; only a few vendors were preparing their stalls, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting in the air mixed with the earthy smell of herbs. 

Scarlett scanned the horizon for the man from last night. Nothing seemed out of place, yet somehow something was shifting, something she could do nothing about, weighing upon her with soft insistence. 

Whatever truths Hawthorne kept, Scarlett knew she was not going to uncover them by waiting around. She had to dig deeper and do it quickly. 

Scarlett grew restless by mid-morning. With time, she came to feel suffocated by the house. She pulled on a comfortable sweater and jeans and left her room, then grabbed her coat, and made for the market square again. The streets were quiet and mist hung low in the spaces between the trees and buildings so the air had an otherworldly glow.

She couldn't help but walk, noticing how few people she met on her way. This town that was once alive was like a ghost town now. Local shops were shuttered, with dust-covered windows and wooden signs creaking with every gust of wind. The community that once thrived here slid into this weird quiet, waiting for something waiting for her.

It carried with it the earth smell and something else, very much almost in recognition. It must be secrets and memories of days of years gone by. The only sound was Scarlett's steps as she walked more steps into the square. It had been just one week of returning to Hawthorne for a visit, but there now was a feeling she wasn't alone. As if it knew something she did not, the town itself stood quiet. This was what it was when she saw him.

She stands by the turn of a little shop ivied over. She hauls up her coat closely about her. Her hands are sunk in her pockets, and she keeps an unwavering stare down at her as she approaches him. Her heart started pounding with it. A dart of recognition tugged at her, though she did not know quite who he was. The air seemed thickening and more oppressive to walk through toward him.

Scarlett drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and bridged the distance between them.

 Hey, she said, her tone steady and assertive. You said we needed to talk.

He still hadn't looked up at her, but something in his expression was now more calculating, less menacing. His voice was soft, slow, and deliberate when he finally spoke.

I did, he said. Scarlett, my name is Eliot Mercer. I've been looking for you.

Scarlett stopped, barely feet in, sorting her feelings. His words created another ripple of fear for her. Another mystery was just what she needed. More strangers tying herself to her father's disappearance. She spent years to let Hawthorne, along with the mystery of that place, trickle from her mind like water. It seemed now the town wouldn't let her slip freely either.

Eliot looked at her for a moment as if he'd decided to go on.

Because your father's story is connected with this town, he said finally. His voice was firm, his words measured. Hawthorne has a history, and your father had been part of it.

Scarlett's heart sank, and a heavy burden weighed on her chest, under the weight of his words. She wanted so desperately for whatever may happen to her father, however cruel or unearthly it may be, buried so long ago, the truth drowned in layers of time and silence. Standing before this stranger, Scarlett found the past rising and pulling her back into depths once so dark.

How do you know about my dad?

Eliot gazed down at the floor before rising to meet hers again. His face smoothed, but there was nothing readable in the curves of his features.

Because I know this town," he said. I know its secrets. And I know you are seeking answers.

Scarlett's throat closed, the air seemed to chill on her skin, mist as thick as swallowing them into a secret none else knew. His words hit too close to truths she'd buried for so long. She'd been trying to find answers. It's exactly what she had been doing since the day her father was gone, leaving nothing but a note, some obscure words, and an entire town of unanswered questions.

What do you mean secrets? she asked, her voice shuddering slightly.

Eliot turned away, looking out over the horizon, his eyes scanning through the misty distance as if he were thinking about just how to say the next words carefully. His posture stiffened, the quiet calm that defined him slipping just slightly.

 The silence about your father is as thick in those stories as you or I. It's not a story I'm comfortable telling lightly, but if you want the truth, Scarlett, you're going to need to trust me.

Scarlett looked at him, her emotions a jumbled mess of fear suspicion, and curiosity. Trust. That word hung between them, heavy and unsure, like an invisible wall she wasn't sure she wanted to cross over.

You expect me to just believe you? she asked her voice cutting. She wasn't certain if she was angry or scared and angry. This guy had simply appeared out of nowhere, talking about her dad, talking about this place how was she supposed to trust him?

Eliot's eyes relaxed, but he didn't step back. He reached forward a little, lowered his voice a little, and spoke more intimately.

I expect nothing but your willingness to listen, he said. His voice had a quality, a quality that made her heart pound in a manner she did not understand in the least. Hawthorne is a town of tales, Scarlett. And your father's story is more twisted than most. If you need to know what happened to him, if you want to know why he had to go why he did leave then listen. But only if you can take it.

Scarlett's head spun. She'd been running so long from the mystery of her father's disappearance. She'd gotten so busy burying herself in the illusion of normal life, far away from Hawthorne and its strange, unsettling history. And yet, here it was, pulling her back.

You said you were waiting for me, she said finally, her voice thick with the weight of her growing confusion. What does that mean?

Eliot's eyes softened, and for a moment Scarlett looked in them something deep down nearly sad. His voice had softened too, almost an echo in the slowly thickening fog.

It means I have sat in the shadows of a room like this watching, waiting until you return to Hawthorne, he said. Your father's story matters, but it is wrapped up badly. It's not easy to unravel what's what or even come close unless the pieces are done together; however, that can all come if you trust me and let me help.

It was like she felt the pull of his words, the weight of his eyes. It was like she was standing at the edge of something so big and so unknown, looking into the dark and deciding whether to take that first step or turn and run.

Before she could answer.