For a moment, the world contracts to the square of cold glass and the impossible image beyond it. My own breath steams the window, blurring the inside and obscuring the woman who should not be there. I wipe the condensation with my sleeve, heart pounding so hard it aches in my chest.
My mother sits on the edge of the bed, her hands folded primly in her lap. The housecoat is faded blue, patterned with tiny violets. The last time I saw that robe, I was boxing it up to donate—the memory is unshakably vivid. Yet there she is, here and now, smiling through the haze, her eyes impossibly bright.
I blink. Her image flickers, as if a shadow passes between us. The room behind her is exactly as I left it: made bed, glass of water, wallpaper yellowed by time. The book is gone from the nightstand, present now only in my trembling arm where I clutch it tight.
I want to call out, but my throat is thick with fear and some wild, desperate hope. The fog eddies around my legs, curling over my shoes and through the low shrubs at the house's base. Lena stands a step behind, silent, her face drawn and pale. She keeps a hand on my arm as if to anchor herself.
My mother raises a hand. Her palm, pressed against the glass from inside, leaves a print that blooms with condensation. She mouths something I can't hear. The windowpane vibrates faintly, as if with the memory of her voice.
"Did you see that?" Lena asks, barely audible. Her fingers dig into my sleeve.
I nod. My own hand creeps toward the glass, aching to touch. The cold radiates into my bones before I even make contact. My mother’s eyes are fixed on mine, her smile unwavering. She seems both aged and impossibly alive.
A sudden creak from above. The gutter overhead groans in the wind, snapping me back to my senses. I glance down at the book: the cover is damp from my grip, the gold lettering smeared. I look up—she is still there. Not a trick of the light. Not a memory. Not a photograph. My mother, in the flesh or some echo of it, sitting in the missing room.
Lena’s breath quickens. “What do we do?” she whispers, her voice thick—whether with dread or awe, I can’t tell.
Inside, my mother’s lips move again. I watch, straining to translate. Two syllables, maybe three. Her hand slides down, leaving a streak. Then she stands, slow, deliberate, and steps toward the window. Her face is ringed by the curtain’s faded lace. She places her palm directly over mine on the glass—cold for me, warm for her. I feel nothing but the icy pane, yet the room seems to lean toward me, pulling me in.
A pressure builds in my head. The air tastes metallic, like blood in my mouth. I try to remember the last thing my mother said to me, but my mind blanks, replaced by the memory of stormy nights and the distant sound of her laughter. The fog thickens. She is so close I can see the tiny scar on her chin, the one she tried to cover with makeup before every photo.
Suddenly, the room behind her darkens, the edges of the window blurring, the light fading as if the sun is being swallowed by mist. Her smile falters. Her mouth opens wider—urgency now, not warmth. She slaps her palm against the glass. I hear it, a deadened sound on my side. Her eyes widen, frantic. She mouths again, louder: Help. Me.
The window rattles under her hand. The book in my arm seems to twitch, the pages fluttering in a breeze that isn’t there. The fog swallows the garden, the path, Lena’s feet. I can't move. My mother’s face contorts in fear, and somewhere inside the house, a door slams—echoing like a shot through the walls.
Lena tugs at me, but I can’t leave the glass. My mother’s desperate eyes bore into mine, pleading, as the room behind her buckles, warps, begins to fold in on itself, swirling with shadows. Her hand disappears first, then her face, dissolving into the black behind the pane until all that’s left is my reflection, wide-eyed and alone.
A single word is etched in the condensation where her palm had been: "Inside."
I turn. The front door stands open, the house yawning dark and silent, the missing room waiting beyond.