The air was nipping at her cheeks as she hurried home along the darkened street. Flickering flames from the lampposts threw quivering pools of light onto her path, and she felt a sweet tinge of appreciation for the simple beauty of such things. It was the first night where her breath was visible, every exhalation sending wispy puffs into the air where they hovered and quickly melted away. She shivered, letting out a soft "brrrr!", her pace picking up until the small cottage came into view.
Once the door had clicked shut, and the sharp chill began to dissipate with racing tingles along the nerves beneath her skin, she could finally stop and begin to sort out her thoughts.
Her head leaned back against the door, and her eyes slipped closed. Gently labored breaths drew in and out of slightly parted lips, as if she had rushed all the way home. Her right hand moved up to rest against her breast. She could feel the restless drumming of her heart against her fingers. A phantom warmth and heaviness still lingered on her knuckles. The grip of his hand was no longer there, and yet she felt it.
Is this...how you are? he had asked her.
Eyes the color of a midnight sea fluttered open once more. Beyond the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, she saw in her mind mountains covered with snow, and a bustling town filled with people bundled in furs.
A trembling breath was sucked in, and quivered out past her lips, yet the frenetic pattering of her heart refused to calm. His countenance filled her mind; the tousled mess of his straw-colored hair, the unshaven scruff along his jaw, the ice-blue of his eyes. Eyes that somehow managed to burn her like fire despite their cool hue.
Is this...how you are?
She stepped abruptly away from the door and ripped the shawl from her shoulders, tossing it into a heap on the bed in the corner of the room. Once the hearth had been refreshed and the fire kindled back to life, she began to pace. Like a restless mare in the throes of labor, her feet could not be still, and they began to wear a circle around the floor of the small house.
Minutes passed, but she did not care to count them. Her eyes drifted over the humble furnishings; the chair, the table, the bed. But she saw only faces. A woman of simple bearing, humble and plain in appearance, with eyes full of love. A dark-haired man with grey eyes and a smile that hid a broken heart. Another man, older and fairer, his face creased with the passing of years and faithful duty.
Behind them all, another visage pressed for her attention. Warm eyes, the color of chestnuts, decorated with a plethora of wrinkles when he smiled.
Aye. 'Tis how she is, the stubborn ghost seemed to say. Was his tone angry? Disappointed? Amused?
Her eyes had closed now, but still she wandered, back and forth, round and round the room. Tension took up residence in the set of her jaw, and the tightened muscles between her eyes. At last, she gave up her pacing and walked to the bed, flopping down with her head cradled in her hands.
