The fire crackled low, casting orange light across the small sitting room.
He sat stiffly in the armchair opposite her, holding a glass he hadn’t yet touched. The air smelled faintly of dust, citrus peel, and old wood.
The old woman moved with deliberate calm, her hands steady as she poured another measure into his glass. The bottle was heavy crystal, the kind no one seemed to make anymore.
“Still whisky?” she asked.
He nodded, though he had never told her what he drank.
Her thin lips curved into a faint smile. “I remember more than you think.”
She lowered herself into the seat across from him, the lamplight painting deep lines across her face. Her gaze was sharp—too sharp, he thought—for someone who claimed not to have seen him in thirty years.
He finally took a sip. It was smooth, warmer than he expected.
But there was something else beneath it—an aftertaste that stirred an old unease.
“You don’t ask why I called you,” she said, her tone almost casual.
“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
She laughed softly. “I’ve been ready for decades. You just weren’t.”
He set the glass down. “You make it sound like I ran away.”
Her eyes caught the firelight, glinting. “Didn’t you?”
The question lingered between them. The fire popped. Somewhere upstairs, the old grandfather clock struck nine.
“I thought it was the right thing,” he said finally. “Back then.”
“Right for whom?” she asked quietly.
He looked down.
She rose then, slow and deliberate, and crossed to a shelf. Her fingers brushed a line of books before stopping at a small wooden box. She set it on the table between them.
“I kept this,” she said. “All these years. I thought one day you’d want to see it again.”
He hesitated before opening it. Inside lay a single photograph—him, much younger, standing beside a woman who was not the one in front of him. And yet… the eyes were the same.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered.
The old woman leaned forward. “You were never supposed to.”
For a moment, her expression softened, almost tender. Then she looked toward the fire and said, almost to herself, “Some debts don’t vanish. They just wait for us to remember them.”
The clock struck again—ten now.
He turned to ask her what she meant, but the chair across from him was empty.
The whisky glass, still half full, sat untouched—though he could have sworn he’d seen her drink from it moments ago.