The peace of her sanctuary had been disturbed, first by men present and men past, second by loud voices, shrieking, fighting. She mourned the ruin of the plant lying under the blanket. It had been an odd retreat for her, its fleshy leaves and its artificial sun a reprieve from the gloom perpetually haunting the house.


    Now it was gone.


    Would it leave a ghost, like herself? Or were plants blessed with the ability to depart fully, leaving what should be left behind, without the taint of consciousness binding them?


    And yet... she knew perfectly well that it was she who was keeping herself here. Perhaps it was time to do something about that.


    The lawn was almost grey under the night''s blanket of mist. Only the faintest hint of green peeked from the edges of the blades to combat the drear wash of colourlessness. Emilie walked down towards the lake, towards the thickening of the mists, towards what she always suspected lay beyond: a true ending. There had always been a line she''d never crossed. She had never had the courage to broach it, but perhaps if she did, tonight, events might slow to a conclusion in her absence. Perhaps the tension in the house would ease, without her presence. Or they might all become a new batch of ghosts to haunt the place. Who knew? At that point, she wouldn''t know or care.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    She made the mistake of turning to look back at the house, at the point where she had never been past before.


    The glint of a lit window winked at her, the only sign of the house.


    Then from within, the faintest echo of the cry drew her back up the lawn at a sprint.


    How could she even have thought about leaving the house without finding the source of the cry? She collapsed against the door and beat the frame. How dare she? The depth of her betrayal sickened her.


    She stumbled into the house, and in her self-loathing daze found herself in the dining room.


    Like a gale, something rushed at her, something which stank of the rot of a century. By luck more than skill she stepped backwards into the corridor, and the door flew shut in front of her.


    Good. She wasn''t ready to confront him yet.


    She climbed the stairs, part of her urging the continuation of the search for the cry. But there was something else she wanted to see.


    Entering a room facing north, Emilie gazed through the mists, hoping, if even for a moment, to penetrate their denseness and see the neighbouring house through the trees.


    She had remembered something new since the afternoon: that Virginie had lived in that house. They had spent time together there, long, tireless hours, in which the concerns of the everyday were forgotten, and there was only her; her voice, her ready laughter, her direct stare, her steady arms.


    Could something about this new memory be the key to ending it all the right way? Hearing the cry, and taking the being who cried through the mists with her, to the lake?


    She didn''t know. Being dead was much like the worst sleep-deprived and thirst-fuelled headache; it made thinking clearly ever so difficult.