Page 93 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

He sat.

"Good boy."

I scrubbed the rain from his thick coat until the black fur puffed back into place instead of lying flat against his ribs. When I finished, he shook anyway. Water droplets exploded across the hallway.

I stared.

Max stared back.

"...That was personal."

He wagged once before trotting toward the fireplace, perfectly pleased with himself.

I peeled Elias's jersey over my head. For a moment I simply held it. It still smelled like him. Rain. Cold mountain air. Tobacco that clung stubbornly to wool no matter how many times it was washed. Comfort. Safe. Funny how people become smells before they become memories.

I knew washing it would erase most of that, but I hoped that there would still be a slight smell of him left or I’ll maybe go borrow another one… With a small sigh, I poured detergent into the machine and laid the jersey inside as gently as if I were putting someone to sleep. The lid closed with a soft click. The washing machine rumbled to life.

Round and around.

Isn’t it interesting how people think washing machines clean everything. Sometimes they just spread the stain around until you can't see where it started.

The shower was almost too hot. Steam curled around the small bathroom while muddy water spiralled down the drain. I stood beneath it longer than I needed to, letting it pound against my shoulders until my skin turned pink.

Eventually...

I dressed in soft pyjamas, tied my damp hair into a loose knot and wandered back into the kitchen. The kettle hissed. Gerald and Frank were exactly where I'd left them.

"Are you okay, Sera?" Gerald asked softly.

"She’ll be fine," Frank grumbled.

"Won’t you Ser’?"

“I’ll be fine Frank. I am okay Gerald, just a bad day…”

"Yeah, just a bad day, remember that time when you tried baking banana bread and you almost burned the kitchen down. That was a bad day." Gerald grumbled.

"That was a bad day but also a smelly one the house reeked for a few weeks.” Frank’s ceramic face crinkled with a smile. I snorted into my tea.

“Come on guys, let's go to bed.”

Morning arrived quietly. Not because mornings were quiet, they weren't. They lied.

The kettle hissed on the stove, birds argued somewhere beyond the birch trees, and the old floorboards beneath my feet protested every step with tired little groans. The cottage had a heartbeat of its own. It sighed. It creaked. It settled.

People always assume silence means peace.

It doesn't.

It simply means nothing has screamed...

Yet.

I wrapped both hands around my coffee mug and wandered toward the front window, watching pale ribbons of mist curl lazily through the valley. Overnight rain still clung to the rose bushes, each tiny droplet catching the weak morning light until the garden looked sprinkled with shattered glass.

Pretty. Dangerous. Like most beautiful things. The oversized blue jersey slipped off one shoulder. No. Before you get ideas… I know exactly what you're thinking. "She's wearing his jersey." Congratulations. You have functioning eyes. Don't make it weird. I’ve been wearing it for a while.

Actually… Go ahead. I'm making it weird enough for both of us. A soft snort escaped me before I lifted the mug to my lips. The coffee was still too hot and I burned my tongue, but it was so worth it. Behind me, ceramic scraped against wood.