The House Keeper

He curled himself onto the bed, hoping not to wake her. He could not wake her. The covers draped over her hips. He did not lift the covers; he didn’t need them. She was warm, unlike him.

She twitched. He froze. She settled.

Slowly, he edged closer, hopeful to feel her. To feel her warmth against him. The heave of her back pressed into him with every inhale. Her pale hair, dark in the dim light, swept over the white of the cushion. Relishing the heat seeping from her, he found comfort.

It had been many, many years since a woman had slept under his roof. Normally, the wardens of the house were men. Boring men. Men who bristled at his presence. His wife had been the last woman to live here. She had survived beyond him, and then came the emptiness. Days and years merged with little to occupy his interest.

This new guest was not like his wife. There was a calmness, a real beauty in her step. A gentleness in her manner.

He had watched her around the house for months. She sometimes spoke to herself and he liked to think she was talking to him. It gave him hope of an end to this limbo. She moved so gracefully around the rooms, touching his belongings delicately and the books that were said to be of the house. They were not. He knew. He had been here, watching.

He dared to lower his arm over her and pressed his head to her shoulder, placing his hand over hers, half hoping she would open her fingers and interlace them with his.

She took a deep, solitary breath.

“Are you lonely?” she asked in a voice that tailed off into sleep.

Something jolted in his chest, as if he were a man again. He opened his eyes, wondering if she was aware of him, if she would wake and talk to him. If she would stay. Her hand came to rest over his. He could not move. She knew he was here. He did not want her to face him. She would scream. She would leave. Everyone did. Even when they had turned up to see him.

“Yes,” he breathed, the word staggering from his throat, as if he had been holding it in. As if the truth had been stifled at the back of this throat for years.

Her body shivered and she twitched. He could not risk her opening her eyes and looking through him. He could not bear it. Gently, he slid away before he froze her.

“Don’t leave,” she muttered into her pillow, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.

He felt an ache swell in his chest. Something he had not felt for a long time, not in his condition. This woman was calm, undeterred by his presence, as if she had expected him, as if they had known each other for years.

“I’m still here,” he whispered, “I’m always here.”