Letter from the dead

Clara sat on the deck chair, one arm hanging down. The sun was lower now, shining across the lake in long lines. The water moved in small ripples, not still but not rough either. A bird crossed the sky, wings flashing, then disappeared behind the trees. She watched it go, then rubbed her eyes.

Daniel sat beside her with a half-empty glass. He was talking about their first trip together, the time they got lost near Denver. He laughed too loudly at the memory, the way he always did, and she laughed too, mostly at him. Seven years of marriage had not changed that.

“This place,” he said, stretching out his legs until his feet almost touched the railing. “It feels like the world forgot us.”

Clara smiled. “That’s what we wanted.”

“Exactly.” He lifted his glass as if to toast, then frowned at it. “I’ll get more.”

“Don’t be long,” she said.

He stood and went inside. The screen door snapped shut. Clara stayed outside, arms crossed against the breeze.

She closed her eyes and listened. Water against the shore. A branch creaking. The faint buzz of an insect. She thought of their fights, both the small and the bitter ones, and how he always found a way to make her laugh after. Seven years had balanced like that.

She opened her eyes again. He was still inside. Too long for just ice. She frowned.

A crash came from the cabin,sharp, like glass breaking. She sat forward quickly.

“Daniel?”

No answer.

Then another sound, heavier, as if something large had fallen.

Her chest tightened. She stood. “Daniel!”

The air seemed too still. She hurried across the deck and pushed the door.

Inside, the room was in disorder. A chair lay on its side. A lamp lay broken. Books were scattered across the floor. Dark stains marked the rug, the wall, even the couch.

Her breath caught.

“Daniel?” The word came out weak.

She stepped inside. Her shoes stuck against the floor as she walked. The couch was streaked dark. A picture frame hung broken on the wall.

Near the fireplace lay a folded paper. Its corner was stained red.

Clara bent and picked it up.

Her heart stopped. The handwriting was Daniel’s. She knew it at once.

At the top was a date. It was dated one week ago.

Her hands shook as she opened the paper. Her eyes filled, but she forced them clear.

It was from Daniel. Waiting for her.