The Fog Remembers

Journal Entry – November 26, 1871

The fog hasn’t left.

It lingers in the hollows of the yard, breathing against the windows like an animal that’s learned the rhythm of sleep. I can see shapes moving in it — not men, not ghosts, but the memory of them, impressions left where warmth once lived.

By mid-morning it slipped through the cracks of the kitchen door, soft as steam. I should have feared it, but it smelled of rain and pine — almost clean. I told myself it was only the chill of the river drifting up the valley. Then I heard the hum again, low and steady, and the fog began to curl around the furniture, finding corners the light couldn’t reach.

I wiped the mirror in the parlor, meaning to clear the condensation, but the handprint that stared back wasn’t mine. Longer fingers. Narrower palm. The mark on my wrist pulsed once — recognition — and the print faded.

Guests came down late for supper. Their voices sounded distant, muffled, as though spoken through wet cloth. Mr. Thorne complained of losing time; he said he woke at dusk thinking it still morning. Mrs. Crane swore she saw her late husband walk past the window.

I stayed awake long after they’d gone to bed, sitting by the dying hearth. The fog pressed closer to the glass, thick as wool, and for a moment it seemed to form a face — his face — smiling, patient, proud.

When I whispered, “What do you want?” the fire hissed and went out.

The fog didn’t move. It waited, breathing with me, remembering the question.