Before the Storm

It was the kind of storm you felt in your bones. Thunder rumbled through the pines as Emily Grant sank into her cabin's old leather armchair, the fire crackling an uneven rhythm that matched her uneven heartbeat. She'd driven here to escape. Escape her now ex-husband’s lingering shadow, the relentless questions from the school board, and the damned pitying looks from everyone who claimed they cared. But in reality, escape was just settling into more familiar discomfort, like an old sweater you couldn't quite shrug off. The tinny pings on the rooftop were drowned out when a banging echoed from outside. At first, she thought it was the wind playing tricks, but then she heard it again. Standing, Emily hesitated, a tremor of fear telling her to stay put. Curiousity is a mean thing, though, and it carried her to the door. A face emerged through the rain-streaked darkness, lit briefly by a flash of lightning. A man, mid-thirties, his soaked clothes clinging like desperation. Emily cycled through emotions – apprehension, irritation, sympathy. But something in his hazel eyes stirred familiarity. “Please, ma'am, I just need to use a phone. Car broke down,” he said, edging towards friendly. Letting out a slow breath, Emily stepped aside, gesturing him in. A bottle of wine might have whispered confidence in her ear. Minutes passed in near silence; the dial tone he needed wouldn’t come as the storm rendered technology useless. “Name’s Tom," he said finally, lingering near the warmth. He held out his hand. “Emily.” She shook it, noting how surprisingly soft it felt. “Sorry to put you out this way. Not a great night to be getting lost in the wilderness. Trust me,” Tom muttered. Another flash illuminated his expression—a mix of something like haunted guilt and irony. Emily went to say something, the look sticking, but she couldn’t find words. “Why’re you out here?” she asked, leaning on the corners of ordinary conversation to weather the unusual situation. Tom shrugged, perhaps a little too casually. “Guess I had my own set of things to run from.” They danced around the truth with their words. Tom seemed to read Emily in a way she couldn’t quite articulate, veering conversations towards dreams unfulfilled and the ghosts we choose to ignore. As the wine disappeared lower in the bottle, so did the barriers between them. He spun stories of a life tangled in regrets spun from half-smiles and sideways looks. Emily found herself ensnared by his language, the way he dropped past the surface and chased deeper meanings. By midnight, Emily wasn’t sure if it was heartache or proximity that urged her to lean in closer, inspired by his fragmented tales of redemption. But there is always a moment meant to rupture the facade. It came slowly, like a tide shifting. A picture on the mantel — she’d never noticed it before tonight — suddenly tilted in the firelight: her late grandmother and a little girl peering shyly at the horizon. Tom noticed it, his gaze lingering mournfully, before he whispered, “Suppose it’s time to confess something.” Her gut twisted when he told her the truth, something so implausible it could only be certainty. The storm paused around them, clinging to each breath they took. “I was sent here, you know. If I don’t make it back…” Emily, stunned, watched him with new eyes. A deadly echo sounded like fate, but it flared possibilities. All this time she had seen only an unresolved stranger. Now, she saw him as the unfathomable twist her story needed. Rain dripped from the windows, as thoughts unspoken pulsed. Emily enveloped the room’s quiet, understanding for the first time that life moves at its own intangible rhythm. As dawn broke, Tom’s car magically started, carrying him off—a bolt of newfound understanding bolting through the trees. Emily? She smiled, knowing the storm had brought just as much clarity as chaos. She returned to her chair, absorbing the ambiguity as both a storm and a gentle shake-up. And for once, standing still didn’t mean not moving forward.