Love For The Dead (wlw)

The fire took everything.

It started in Marla’s studio — a converted barn behind our cottage, filled with canvases, turpentine, and the scent of lavender. I woke to the crackle of flame and the scream of wood splitting. At first, I thought I was dreaming. The orange glow through the bedroom window looked almost beautiful. Then I heard the glass shatter.

I ran barefoot across the lawn, screaming her name. The grass was wet with dew, cold against my feet. Smoke poured from the windows in thick, choking waves. I tried the door, but the heat blistered my skin. I saw her silhouette once, framed in firelight, reaching for the handle.

Then she was gone.

The fire department arrived too late. They pulled out what was left of her — a shape wrapped in blackened cloth, unrecognizable. They said it was faulty wiring. A tragic accident. I buried her in a closed casket, the scent of smoke still clinging to my skin. I stopped painting. I stopped sleeping. I stopped being anything but a shadow of the woman she loved.

I wandered the house like a ghost. Her studio remained untouched, sealed off with caution tape. I kept the porch light on every night, as if she might find her way back. I whispered to her in the dark. I wrote letters I never sent.

I stopped using the bedroom. The sheets still smelled like her — lavender and linseed oil — and I couldn’t bear to disturb the imprint her body had left in the mattress. I slept on the couch instead, curled beneath the quilt she made the winter we got snowed in. Some nights I’d wake up gasping, convinced I’d heard her voice calling from the backyard, only to find the porch empty and the wind rattling the wind chimes she hung from the eaves.

I tried to keep her alive in small ways. I brewed her favorite tea, even though I couldn’t stand the taste. I played her records, letting Billie Holiday and Nina Simone fill the silence she left behind. I wore her sweaters, her rings, her grief like a second skin. The neighbors stopped checking in after a while. I think they were afraid of what I was becoming — or maybe they saw too much of their own fears in me.

Time didn’t pass so much as it pooled — thick, stagnant, and heavy. I marked the days by the wilting of flowers and the slow decay of fruit in the bowl. I couldn’t bring myself to throw anything away. Her toothbrush stayed in the cup. Her boots by the door. Her last half-finished painting still on the easel, the brush strokes frozen mid-thought.

I told myself I was waiting for closure. But the truth was, I didn’t want to let go. Letting go meant admitting she was truly gone. And I wasn’t ready for that.

Three months later, the first letter arrived.

It was her handwriting. Slanted, elegant, unmistakable. The envelope smelled faintly of lavender.

“I miss you. I never stopped watching.”

I dropped it. My hands shook. I stared at the envelope for hours, trying to convince myself it was a cruel prank. But the letters kept coming. Each one more intimate, more knowing. They described things only Marla could know — the way I hummed when I cooked, the scar behind my ear, the dreams I had as a child.

“You leave the porch light on now. I like that. It makes it easier to find you.”

I should’ve been terrified. But I wrote back.

I needed her. Even if she was a ghost.

I started leaving notes in the mailbox. I didn’t know where they went, but I always got a reply. Her words were tender, obsessive, strange. She spoke of watching me sleep, of hearing my breath through the walls. She said she’d never stopped loving me. That she’d never really left.

The final letter was an invitation.

“Come to the greenhouse. Midnight. I’ll explain everything.”

I waited until the clock struck midnight. The house was silent, save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional creak of settling wood. I dressed slowly, deliberately — black coat, boots, gloves. I slipped the knife into my pocket without ceremony. Not because I expected danger, but because I no longer trusted the world to play fair.

The greenhouse stood at the edge of the property, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. It had been locked since the fire, its glass panes streaked with soot and time. Marla used to spend hours in there, coaxing life from soil with the same tenderness she gave to me. Lavender, rosemary, foxglove — her sacred trio. The scent used to drift into the kitchen on warm afternoons, mingling with the smell of paint and tea.

I hesitated at the door. My breath fogged the glass. The padlock was rusted but broken — someone had already been inside. I pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning like a warning. The air inside was damp and earthy, tinged with decay and something sweeter, almost metallic.

Moonlight filtered through the cracked ceiling, casting fractured beams across the overgrown planters and shattered pots. Vines curled around the support beams like veins. I stepped inside, heart pounding, the knife heavy in my coat.

And then I saw her.

She stood at the far end of the greenhouse, half-shrouded in shadow, her silhouette framed by a wall of climbing jasmine. Her posture, her face, her eyes — they were Marla’s. But something was off. Her smile was too still. Her gaze too sharp. She tilted her head, and the motion was familiar, achingly so.

“Evelyn,” she whispered.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

It was her.

Or someone who wore her face.

She stepped from the shadows like a dream made flesh. Her hair was shorter, her eyes darker, but her smile — that crooked, knowing smile — was hers. She kissed me before I could speak. I kissed her back. I wanted it to be real. I needed it to be real.

She told me she had escaped the fire. That she’d faked her death to protect me from something — someone. She said she’d been watching, waiting, making sure it was safe to return.

I believed her.

Because love makes you believe.

We moved back into the cottage. She repainted the studio. We planted lavender again. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to break the spell.

But sometimes, I’d catch her staring at me with a look I couldn’t name. Hunger, maybe. Or guilt. She’d trace my face with her fingers like she was memorizing it. Like she was afraid it would vanish.

I told myself it was trauma. That she was healing.

I told myself a lot of things.

One night, I found a box beneath the floorboards of the studio. Inside were letters — dozens of them. All written in my handwriting. All addressed to her. But I’d never written them.

I asked her about it.

She smiled. “You wrote them in your sleep.”

I believed her.

Because love makes you blind.

But the doubt crept in.

She didn’t remember the name of our first dog. She flinched at the sound of the piano — Marla used to play every morning. She called my mother “Elaine,” but her name was Eleanor.

I started watching her the way she once claimed to watch me.

I found a photo in her coat pocket — a woman who looked like Marla, but not quite. Her eyes were colder. Her smile was wrong. On the back, in faded ink: Sable. 2017.

I didn’t confront her.

I couldn’t.

Because every time she held me, I felt safe. Every time she whispered my name, I felt wanted. Every time she kissed me, I forgot the fire.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe love didn’t need truth to survive.

Because sometimes, love is not about who you were — but who you choose to be.

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