In the thinning afternoon sun, that golden glow that heralded the twilight, Alka’s cottage looked much the same as it always had. A quaint little home, surrounded by ever blooming flowers, a multitude of colour, like the sweep of an artist's brush. There was an easel set out, splashed with old paint, well-used and well-loved. Ivy cross-crossed up the walls, having grown wilder, nearly blanketing the front wall entirely. One window was open to allow a breeze to drift through.It was a nice home, a place of calm. Alka rarely bothered to leave anymore. She had a garden full of vegetables, she had her house, her easel, her crows. The lively birds who had moved in a while ago, using the nearby trees and her roof as nesting places. Whenever she went outside, she could feel them watching her, their heads tilted curiously. She left them her dinner scraps and turned the earth so they could snap up the worms. They were comforting, in a very odd way.
As the sun snuck lower, Alka finished the last of her chores and moved to the doorway, framed by the light from her fireplace as the world dimmed, shadows encroaching. And tonight, as she had every night, she waited.
There were some days where the memory of why tried to fly from her memory, a thought she couldn’t quite grasp. During his long absences it was the worst. As if she wasn’t supposed to remember. Maybe she wasn’t. There was always something teasing at the edge of her mind, something maddening. Sometimes in her dreams, there was violence, a raging beast, blood. When she woke the next day, the details were too fuzzy to recall.
She didn’t want to forget.
She was desperate not to.
There was a painting of him on her wall, his proud face, feathers in his hair, a crow on his shoulder. She had made sure she would never forget him. Because when she looked at it, all she felt was love.
And so every night she stood by her door and she waited.