Carina's POV
The clock ticked steadily, its hands inching closer to midnight. I sat at the edge of the caretaker’s couch, my fingers gripping the rough fabric of my borrowed blanket. The air in the room was damp and cold, heavy with the scent of rain. The storm outside was relentless, wind howling like a mournful wail, but it only deepened the silence inside.
The clock struck 10:45. Fifteen minutes to go.
I stared at the wall, trying to make sense of everything that had led me here. Life hadn’t turned out the way I thought it would. Not by a long shot.
I thought about Miguel—my husband, or rather, my ex-husband. The man I thought would love me forever. We were happy once, weren’t we? At least, that’s how I remember it. But something shifted along the way, and I could never figure out what. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him.
I clenched my jaw, trying to push the bitterness away. He had left me for another woman, someone younger, someone vibrant. Someone who didn’t carry the shadows I did.
And then there was the baby.
My chest tightened at the memory, sharp and unforgiving. I had dreamed of holding my child, of a fresh start, of something pure and untarnished by the past. But life had other plans. The miscarriage was sudden, cruel, and final. It left me hollow, a shell of the person I used to be.
Miguel was gone not long after that. He didn’t even try to stay.
The clock struck 10:50. Ten more minutes.
I let out a slow breath, staring at the rain-streaked window. My reflection stared back at me, tired and worn, a ghost of the girl I used to be.
I had thought that coming back here, to this place, might help me heal. That seeing the fields, walking the same paths, might stitch together the broken parts of me. But now, I wasn’t so sure.
Everything felt too raw, too close to the surface.
The memory of my parents’ sudden deaths clawed at my mind. The unanswered questions. The empty house. And then the caretaker’s words earlier today, about the man who now owned the house.
The description had sent a shiver down my spine, but I had forced myself to stay calm. Surely it was a coincidence. Surely it couldn’t be him.
And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. Waiting.
The clock struck 10:55. Five minutes to go.
I closed my eyes, leaning back against the couch. The storm outside seemed to intensify, the rain pelting against the windows like tiny fists.
I thought about the shadow—the man, the creature, whatever he was. It had been years since I last saw him. Years of trying to forget, of forcing myself to believe it was all in my head. But deep down, I knew the truth.
He was real.
And I had loved him.
Even now, that thought made my stomach twist. Was it really love, or was it something else? Something darker? The old woman’s warnings came back to me, her words about tricks and illusions. But if it was all a lie, why did it feel so real? Why did it still haunt me, even now?
The clock struck 11:00.
I opened my eyes, staring at the darkened room. My heart pounded in my chest, loud and insistent.
And then I heard it.
A soft knock at the door.
Barely audible over the storm, but unmistakable.
My breath caught in my throat as I turned toward the sound. The knock came again, gentle and deliberate.
I stood up slowly, every muscle in my body tense.
It was time.
The knock came again, softer this time. My breath hitched as I moved toward the door, my heartbeat an uneven rhythm. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the air itself were thickening around me.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the doorknob. This was it. The moment I had been waiting for—and dreading.
I turned the knob and pulled the door open.
But it wasn’t him.
The caretaker stood there instead, her face slightly apologetic but kind. She held a small basket in her hands, wrapped neatly with a cloth that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. The tension in my chest loosened, replaced by confusion. It was a woman; the mother of the caretaker-- I've met her earlier.
“I’m sorry, iha,” the woman said, her voice gentle. “The owner couldn’t make it tonight. Something urgent came up in the city.”
I stared at her, the adrenaline in my veins fading into something like disappointment. “Oh,” I managed to say, my voice flat.
“But,” she continued, lifting the basket slightly, “he asked me to bring this to you. He insisted.”
She handed me the basket, and I took it mechanically, my mind spinning.
“I told him you were waiting,” she added with a small smile. “He felt bad about not being able to meet you tonight.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, stepping back to let her in from the rain, but she shook her head.
“I should be going. The rain’s letting up for now, and I don’t want to get caught in it again,” she said, adjusting the hood of her raincoat. “You should eat, iha. Fresh fruits. The best money can buy.”
She gave me a reassuring smile and turned away, disappearing into the dark night.
I closed the door and stared at the basket in my hands. The cloth was damp at the edges from the rain, but the contents inside were untouched. I carried it to the small table and pulled back the cover.
Inside were vibrant fruits: mangoes, bananas, lanzones, and a perfectly ripe watermelon, sliced and carefully arranged. They glistened under the soft light of the room, fresh and fragrant.
I sat down and stared at the spread, my appetite reluctant to surface. The tension that had built up all evening now felt misplaced, like a tightly coiled spring released too soon. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated.
Picking up a slice of watermelon, I took a bite. The sweetness exploded on my tongue, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy it.
The silence in the room pressed against me, broken only by the occasional drip of rainwater outside. My thoughts began to wander.
Why had I expected him to come tonight? Why had I felt so sure?
I took another bite, chewing slowly as I tried to push away the flicker of disappointment. This was good. This was normal. There was no shadow looming in the corner, no cold presence watching me from the edges of my vision.
This was what I wanted, wasn’t it?
The fruit was delicious, but the sweetness felt almost cloying as I ate in silence. Each bite felt heavier, weighed down by the unshakable sense that something was missing. Or maybe... someone.
I finished the last of the watermelon and leaned back in my chair, staring at the basket.
The owner had gone out of his way to send this. It was thoughtful, generous even. But the gesture felt hollow somehow, as though it was trying to fill a void that could never be replaced by food or kind words.
The storm picked up again, rain hammering against the windows with renewed fury. I stared at the flickering light of the single lamp in the room, my mind circling back to the description the caretaker had given earlier.
Pale skin. Long white hair. Eyes that bore into you.
I closed my eyes, the image haunting and yet... familiar.
The fruit sat half-eaten on the table, the room heavy with the scent of ripe sweetness. The night stretched ahead of me, long and uncertain. And though I was alone, the air felt anything but empty.
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