Moonlit Promises

 Scarlett sat there silently tracing the woodwork of the table nervously carved, with her fingers for a few moments, lost in her thoughts accompanied by the tapping sound of the rain against the stained glass. She could feel the words that Eliot bore down on her but found herself without any clue as to what those words possibly could mean to make sense of them. A broken promise. Decades ago, made promises. Shadows in the town.

All that had knotted her heart up in doubts and fears, with questions. How was she supposed to? And why now? Why had she come back to Hawthorne only to become entangled in some kind of web of cryptic hints and half-truths? Her voice was so weak and tentative that she felt the vulnerability in it as if the words themselves were fragile and exposed and might come true simply by saying them aloud.

His gaze locked with hers, serious, and unreadable. At once grounding and unsettling, unnerving the sense of mystery he commanded, shadows seemed to gather wherever he stood, clinging to this damp air as a chill curled around his coat. He leaned back then in his chair, and made some space for her; still, his voice had remained low and cautious with every word.

You already do, he said. His voice was like rain: gentle, firm, steady like a warning whisper. You are here.

Scarlett frowned at him, her brow furrowing. She wanted to protest, to argue, to demand clarity, but something about the certainty in his words made her pause. His calm felt unyielding, but not unkind. She could tell he wasn't trying to manipulate her at least not maliciously. 

 Her fingers were cold as they kept their busy movement on the table. I know nothing else except my father left and why I have no idea. I have no idea of what might have happened here. Even if I should trust you. She searched his eyes, pleading with him to give her any hint or sign that he wasn't playing some elaborately clever game. So what could you help me with?

He looked back without hesitation as if for an instant he could see through to the farthest reaches of her that is, through her to her fears and her doubts and her unsaid questions. His voice stayed low, but unyielding.

You're trying to find answers about your father, he said. His words didn't sound accusatory or intrusive. They simply felt true. It is a discovery of the story behind his absence. Knowing the promises broken, and secrets buried here. I can see that you're already troubled by this tug of the past, the pull of the unknown. Scarlett shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She could feel the heat of her frustration building, a mix of impatience and fear. Her mind swirled with memories of bits and pieces of her father: his laugh, the way he would gesture as he spoke about history, the way he would just sort of drift off into his thoughts as though the past had some sort of hold on him that no present moment could break.

His absence had always hung over her, an unasked question, a whispered answer on the breath of her imagination.

What do you mean by promises?

Eliot inhaled, cocking his head forward slightly. His eyes had the look of weighing each word as they hung there, as though he pondered his sentences. Promises are more than just words, Scarlett. They can hold families, histories, and towns entwined destinies that once made might last long after the original purpose has passed.

Scarlett gazed at him, confused yet mesmerized. She tried to assemble the fragments of what he said into something understandable but his words were evasive and slid through her mind like mist. But why my father? She asked again. Eliot's eyes were steady, unyielding. His words were plain but weighty, like stones thrown into still water, whose ripples spread far beyond what anyone could see.

She closed her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the wave. He could send shivers through her body with just the tone in his voice: choices, Promises, Secrets. She felt that he had pressed the weight on her chest.

The rain turned heavy, pounding against the panes in rhythmic slaps. She tried to focus, to stifle the sound and put pieces together of Eliot's meaning. But the ambiguity was eating away at her, clawing its way into every crevice of thought.

I can't just dive into a story I barely understand, she said, trying to keep her voice steady, to maintain control over the whirlwind of emotion. 

Eliot paused for a moment, his eyes drifting towards the window streaked with rain. His voice was reflective as he spoke, almost as if he were wrestling with his words.

It means that finding these secrets will alter you, he said, his voice has dropped a little in the manner of a lover confiding something private to her, something fragile. The cost is different for everyone, Scarlett, he said. Some truths will leave you in pain. Some will force you to confront things you are not ready for. Sometimes finding the truth changes the way you see yourself and the people around you.

She took his words in as if attempting to see the weight of truth that could unravel the quiet life she had attempted to go back to. She tried to tell herself that mysteries about her father's disappearance were no worse than the secrets of any family, but Eliot's words cast shadows over them.

What do you think is going to happen if I find out? She asked, her voice so low, her heart thudding in her chest. What if the truth breaks me?

Eliot leaned back in his chair again, studying her, his voice unhurried but deliberate. Then you'll face it, he said simply. His words didn't offer false comfort, nor did they promise easy answers. They felt both true and inevitable, as though the weight of them could not be escaped.

Scarlett breathed, her breath shuddering, and watched the rain. The mist seemed deeper now, pushing against the windows, and she wondered whether she could trust herself, or Eliot. His words and his story felt like a whisper of things hidden under layers of stone and earth.

The shadows seemed to live for him as she listened to the soft voice, and for the first time in years, Scarlett felt the town watch her. Waiting.

The weight of the moment pressed on her. Suddenly she was afraid and desperate all at once. How could she look away? How could she go back to her life, to pretend nothing had happened, that these obscure truths weren't clawing their way into her mind?

Okay, she heard herself saying, her voice small, help me.

Eliot looked at her, and for the first time, his face seemed to change. There was comprehension in his gaze, but there was something else as well, something unspoken, heavy with knowledge.

Very well, he said. His voice was steady, and Scarlett could feel the finality of his words. And you can't unearth something without uncovering its price.

The rain continued to fall, wrapping around the library in silence, as they sat there. Scarlett looked up at him, unsure of what lay ahead. 

Something inside her had already begun listening to the whispers of history, and now that the threads were being pulled, she knew there was no escaping the truth.

Not anymore.