Forgotten

The first light of day brushed the edge of the world, and the sun had begun to rise. Miria had always hated curtains. No matter the season, the idea of being trapped indoors—even for a few hours—felt suffocating. She craved the sky, the wind, the gentle chaos of nature.

Why should I turn my back on a world that offers itself so freely? She often wondered. She didn’t care what others thought. Not only that, but she only wanted to feel every passing moment, to live it fully. While studying or sipping her tea, she’d regularly drift off, imagining herself dancing among the garden plants, their quiet movements echoing something inside her. The very idea of nature and trees would give her a sense of relief and sadness. She's never known the reason for that sadness, but here there is, so close to her; waiting; ready to be accepted, and she kept that always away from herself.

Now, sunlight crept across her face, forcing her eyes open. She stretched beneath her blanket, her gaze fixed on the dimmest corner of the room—as if something might still be hiding in the shadows. Her mind wandered of what might be hidden in those dark corners; maybe it was her imagination, or a real threat-not so probable-waiting for her to come out of the bed and ready to catch her. 

While she was drifting away in these thoughts, a soft knock came. Then, a familiar voice followed:

“Miria? Are you awake?”

It was her father.

He always knew the exact moment she stirred, as though some invisible thread bound their souls. No matter how quietly she moved beneath the sheets or how late she lingered in bed, he appeared just as her thoughts began to rise to the surface. It wasn’t something she ever questioned. Their connection ran deeper than words, older than memory.

Miria had only ever known that bond with him. Where others spoke of mothers—of soft hands, lullabies, and the scent of wildflowers—she had silence. Her friends would laugh about long talks with their mothers, their warm advice, their bickering. Miria listened, always on the outside of those conversations, trying to imagine what it must feel like.

Her mother was a shadow stitched into the seams of her life. She had no memories of her—only fragments of stories, scattered like dried petals, always told by her father and never in great detail. He’d speak of her with a kind of reverence, but his eyes would glaze, distant, as though he were looking at something he didn’t want to remember.

Miria had wanted to know. She had tried. As a child, she would ask again and again—where she went, what she was like, what made her laugh. But every time she said her mother’s name aloud, something would change in him. His features would harden—not in anger, but in pain too tightly sealed to spill. The stories, when he did share them, never changed. They repeated word for word, as though he was reading from a script he had memorized out of necessity, not affection.

Eventually, she stopped asking.

There comes a quiet moment in every child’s life when they realize they are protecting their parent, not the other way around. And Miria, perhaps too early, had learned to fold her questions into silence. She told herself it was better this way—to let the ghost lie undisturbed. To not stir whatever sorrow lingered in the spaces her mother had once occupied.

But sometimes—when the wind rattled the windows just right or when she caught herself humming a tune she didn’t know—she wondered.

Who had she inherited that sadness from?…

The thought lingered like a shadow behind her eyes until the creak of the floorboards pulled her back.
She came to her senses again—and there he was. His father, standing at the door, waiting to be invited in.

She smoothed out her expression, put a smile on her face—the one that never failed to brighten his father's mood.

“Yes, Dad. You can come in.”

The door opened slowly. Her father entered, careful, gentle. He sat beside her, his smile warm, and began untangling her tousled hair with patient fingers. It was their ritual. Though she no longer needed bedtime stories, a part of her still waited for him each morning, like a child lingering in the doorway of a forgotten dream. She could lie down here in her bed the whole day and let her father to tell her stories and play with her hair. She felt like a child again and let herself be spoiled once more.

“How long have you been awake?” 

“Just a few minutes. Is breakfast ready?”

“All set. Get dressed, and I’ll finish setting the table. Juice, or should I make tea?”

“Whichever suits the morning best.”

“Don’t take too long. It’s best when it’s hot.”

He left. She rose slowly, changed, tied her hair in a loose braid, and opened the window to let the breeze in—fresh, wild, like the world whispering a secret. The trees in their garden gave her a warm good morning, with their branches in the move and birds on them, singing to each other and to her.

As she descended the stairs, a sweet scent reached her. Blackberry bread—her favorite. The entire house was steeped in its warmth. But when she entered the kitchen, her father was gone.

Only moments ago, there had been sounds—movement, life. Now it felt as if there was no life or movement at that moment. She looked around and called her dad's name and only found the echo of her own voice. 

He must’ve stepped outside, she thought, and took a seat at the table. He knew better than to keep her waiting too long when she was hungry in the morning. Hunger had a way of souring her mood—for no reason other than itself.

Was that her mother’s nature too? She wondered.

She shifted her focus to the table. Everything was set, neat and warm with care—except for the water. That was still missing.

She stood, turned the tap, and let the water run, waiting for it to chill. Then something strange happened. Her eyes fixated on the flowing stream. The more she stared, the clearer it became—like glass. A mirror.

The kitchen around her faded. The sunlight dulled. Colors blurred and twisted. She felt breathless, and cold unease began to grow inside her. Her reflection—or what should have been—was shifting. Warping.

Was she dreaming? Still caught between sleep and waking?

But this felt too real.

The water darkened. Thickened. It turned the color of blood.

Miria’s heart quickened, but her hand moved on its own, reaching. The liquid was warm, not scalding, not painful. Metallic. Familiar.

Like old iron… or blood.

Her breath caught as she brought her fingers to her face, sniffed. The scent dragged memories from deep within—her father’s workshop, rusted tools, forgotten wounds. Then she did something reckless.

She tasted it.

Not blood. Sour. Fruity. Unexpected. Cranberries, maybe. Or something older, wilder.

Then—movement.

A shadow in the water. Not sudden, but slow, as if it had always been there, waiting for her to notice.

Someone stood behind her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. The figure was hazy but unmistakably real—average height, dressed in dark clothes, short hair. He stood just beside the breakfast table, eyes shut, unmoving.

But the table was empty.

Miria turned—nothing. She looked at the clock. Only a few minutes had passed.

When she looked back… the tap was off.

Her mind screamed contradiction. She’d opened it. She had. She remembered the sound, the chill on her fingers.

“Finally managed to get out of bed, huh?”

She jumped.

Her father stood behind the table, in the same spot the figure had been. Same posture. Same stillness. Only… his hair was longer, his clothes brighter.

“You okay? You look a bit pale.”

“I... I must still be dreaming.”

“Come on, breakfast is ready. I’ve got work in the office afterward.”

“Where were you earlier?”

“In the workshop—forgot to write down some measurements for an order.”

“Can you turn off the stove and bring the tea? Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

She obeyed, mechanically. The tea’s color reminded her of the liquid—deep, dark, heavy. She pushed the thought away.

Her hands were dry. The water was off. Her senses were trying to deceive her. She had to believe that.

She poured the tea into their cups, but as the dark liquid spiralled, it reminded her too much of what she’d just seen, or thought she’d seen.

She sipped it anyway.

She focused on her father’s voice, the warm meal, the ordinary. And slowly, like morning mist burned away by sunlight, the memory faded. The shadow dissolved.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. She stood at the window, watching the moon fracture on the garden pond.

In the glass, a figure lingered again.

The same eyes. Closed. Waiting.

And though every part of her whispered to look away

Her heart whispered something else.

“I remember you.”…

Years passed.

Now in her mid-twenties, Miria worked in the workshop with her father, shaping wood, fitting pieces together—creating things with her hands. Tangible. Real.

A life built on what could be touched, carved, held.

But still, in the quiet moments—when water stilled, when light bent just so—
she’d catch a flicker in the corner of her eye. A reflection that didn’t belong.

And feel the breath of something just behind her.
Still waiting.