Where Have You Been Hiding
First, the gloves went missing. Then, the keyring. After that—an old scarf. She could’ve brushed it off, blamed it on age, forgetfulness, exhaustion. But when the sixth thing vanished in a month—the sewing box that always sat on the dresser—Margaret Williams couldn’t take it anymore. She sank onto a chair with a heavy sigh. Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from anger, as if someone invisible was slowly unraveling the threads of her small, familiar world.
“Right then, let’s play,” she said aloud, her voice sharp as a blade, not anxious, but daring.
The flat was silent. Only the old clock on the wall ticked stubbornly. Margaret had lived alone for nine years. Her husband had left suddenly—right there in the living room, a half-drunk cuppa in his hand, an unfinished joke on his lips. After he was gone, she hadn’t changed a thing: the same worn-out sofa, the same creaky chair, even his favourite mug, faded with the words “World’s Best Grandad.”
Her daughter visited twice a year. She’d drop off groceries, grumble about unanswered calls, then hurry off. Her words were clipped, squeezed between work, family, and endless responsibilities. Margaret never minded. She understood—her daughter had her own life, kids, a mortgage. She’d take the bags of tinned soups and pills, smile, hug her awkwardly, then stand in the empty hallway long after the door shut, until the quiet became unbearable.
But last month, something strange started happening. Not all at once—it was subtle, like someone carefully trimming the edges of her life. First, a scent—thin, herbal, like dried thyme in her gran’s cottage. Then, the drafts. Curtains fluttering when the windows were shut. And shadows—shifting on the walls, out of sync with the light, as though someone unseen were slipping through the room, leaving no trace. The house breathed differently, not hers anymore.
Margaret didn’t speak of it. She just sat by the window more often, legs tucked under her, a cold cup of tea in hand, watching snow blanket the old courtyard where kids used to play. She’d remember—her dad teaching her to ride a bike, holding the seat until she found her balance. The winters in the ‘80s, huddling around a space heater with her husband when the power went out, laughing as they tried to toast bread on the hot plate. The night they bought their first telly, arguing half the evening over which channel to watch before falling asleep tangled together.
Then things began disappearing. Little things at first—a button, a handkerchief, an old brooch. Then bigger ones—her favourite scarf, her glasses, her address book. Each time, no sign, no reason. Like an invisible hand was plucking pieces of her life, carefully, deliberately.
“Where have you been hiding?” she asked the emptiness one day. Her voice bounced off the walls, louder than she’d expected, hanging in the air.
Then, from the kitchen, a whisper: *”Here.”*
It was soft, almost childlike, not frightening. Not cruel. Just… not hers. And that sent a shiver down her spine.
She didn’t rush in. She made tea, sat, waited. Stared at the ripples in her cup like they held answers. Then she straightened her shoulders and walked slowly to the kitchen. The door creaked, as if sharing her hesitance. Everything was in place—the checkered tablecloth, the pots on the shelf, the lace curtains. But the air felt alive, thick with held breath. A presence, almost touchable. Warm.
“Who are you?” she asked, steady, unafraid, like she already knew they meant no harm.
No answer. Just a faint creak of the floorboards—a step, then stillness.
The next day, her old notebook vanished—the one where she scribbled recipes and phone numbers nobody used anymore. That evening, coming in from the balcony, she found a postcard on the table. No address, no signature. Just two words, scrawled in shaky handwriting: *”I’m here.”*
From then on, they lived together. The other—in shadows, in corners, in the flutter of curtains. Margaret—in daylight, in the whistle of the kettle, the clink of spoons. They didn’t speak. But one day, opening the cupboard under the stairs, she found all the missing things. Neatly stacked, clean, as though cared for.
Then it hit her: this wasn’t a stranger. It was *her*. The one she’d buried—when her husband died, when her daughter left, when days blurred into grey. The one who’d sung along to the radio, danced in her socks, written terrible poems on scrap paper and hidden them in drawers. The one she’d lost, piece by piece, to *later*, to *not now*.
Margaret took the scarf, draped it round her shoulders. It smelled like lavender and rain. She stepped onto the balcony. Lit a cigarette—first in a decade. The smoke curled into the sky, taking with it the weight, the loneliness, the stiff-upper-lip stillness.
Below, snow fell. Soft, weightless. The city lights glittered in its glow, like the world itself whispering: *”I’ve been waiting.”*
*Where have you been hiding?* she thought. *Oh. There you are.*
