**Where Have You Been Hiding**
At first, it was just the gloves. Then the set of keys vanished. After that, an old scarf went missing. All of it could have been brushed off—blamed on forgetfulness, age, or exhaustion. But when the sixth thing disappeared in a month—a tin of sewing threads that always sat on the dresser—Emily Hawthorne couldn’t take it anymore. She sank into her chair, exhaling heavily. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from anger, from the quiet unraveling of her small, familiar world, as if some unseen hand were plucking threads from the fabric of her life.
“Fine, then,” she said aloud, her voice sharp with defiance, not dread. “Let’s play.”
The flat stayed silent. Only the steady tick of the antique clock next door marked the stubborn passage of time. Emily had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had left suddenly—right there in the sitting room, an unfinished cup of tea in his hand, an unspoken joke still lingering on his lips. After he was gone, she changed nothing: the same worn sofa, the same creaky chair, even his favourite mug remained, its faded “World’s Best Grandad” print left untouched.
Her daughter visited twice a year. She brought groceries, scolded Emily for not answering her calls, and hurried off again. Her words were clipped, squeezed between her own life, work, children, and endless bills. Emily never minded. She understood—her daughter had her own world now. She accepted the bags of biscuits and medicine, hugged her awkwardly, and lingered in the empty hallway long after the door had shut, until the quiet became unbearable.
But a month ago, something odd had begun. Not a sudden shift—just a slow, careful reshaping of her home, like a tailor snipping the edges of worn fabric. First came the scent—faint, like dried herbs smouldering in a corner, reminding her of her grandmother’s cottage. Then the drafts. The curtains trembled even with the windows closed. The shadows, too—they slid along the walls, defying the light, as if an unseen presence tiptoed through the room, leaving no trace. The house breathed a rhythm that wasn’t hers.
Emily never spoke of it. She just sat by the window more often, legs tucked under her, cradling a cold cup of tea, watching the snow drift over the old courtyard where children once played. She remembered her father teaching her to ride a bike, steadying the seat until she found her balance. The winters in the ‘90s, huddled with her husband around a makeshift heater, laughing as they tried to toast bread on a scorching saucepan lid. The night they bought their first telly, arguing over channels until they fell asleep tangled together.
Then the disappearances started. Small things first—a button, a handkerchief, a brooch. Then larger ones—her favourite scarf, her reading glasses, an old address book. Each vanished without a trace, as if someone unseen was carefully collecting fragments of her past.
“Where have you been hiding?” she asked the empty room one day. Her voice echoed off the walls, louder than she expected, hanging in the air like a challenge.
Then, from the kitchen: “Here.”
The voice was soft—almost childlike—but not frightening. Not cruel. Just unmistakably *there*.
She didn’t rush in. Instead, she brewed tea, sat, waited. Studied the ripples in her cup as if they held answers. Then, squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the kitchen. The door creaked like a hesitation. Everything was in its place—the checked tablecloth, the pots on the shelf, the curtains drawn. But the air had shifted. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It pulsed—like held breath, like a presence warm as a whisper.
“Who are you?” she asked, steady, unafraid, as if she already knew no harm would come.
No reply. Just the faintest creak of the floorboards—a step, then stillness.
The next day, her old recipe book vanished, full of outdated phone numbers and instructions in her own faded handwriting. That evening, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no signature. Just two words, scrawled in a shaky hand: *”I’m here.”*
From then on, they lived side by side. *Her* in the shadows, in the flutter of curtains, in the unseen spaces. Emily in the daylight, the whistle of the kettle, the clink of spoons. They never spoke. Until one day, opening the cupboard, she found all the missing things—folded neatly, clean, as if someone had gathered them with care.
And then it struck her. This wasn’t an intruder. It was *her*. The part she’d buried—when her husband died, when her daughter left, when days blurred into grey. The one who’d once played guitar, danced to the radio, scribbled poems on scrap paper and hid them in drawers. The one who’d slipped away, one *”later”*, one *”not now”* at a time.
Emily wrapped the scarf around her shoulders. It smelled of lavender and time. Stepping onto the balcony, she lit a cigarette—her first in a decade. The smoke curled into the sky, carrying with it the weight, the loneliness, the borrowed restraint.
Below, snow drifted down—soft, weightless. In its glow, the city lights shimmered as if the world itself murmured: *”I’ve been waiting.”*
*Where have you been hiding?* she wondered.
Ah, there you are. Found.
