The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain stretched across the skyline of the industrial district, trapping the soot and the silence. Margaret stood before the window in her attic room. The glass was cold. Her breath fogged it. She wiped it away. The view was a blur of brick and iron. Below, the streets were empty. The factories had stopped. The war had stopped. Or so the papers said.

Margaret looked at her hands. They were stained. Green. The color of crushed stems. She had been pruning the rosebush in the yard all day. The thorns had drawn blood. She had not felt it. The pain was a distant thing. A memory of sensation. Her fingers trembled. A small, black bud sat in her palm. It was closed tight. A secret. A promise.

She moved to the corner of the room. A mirror stood there. Old. Clouded at the edges. She looked into it. The woman who stared back was hollowed out. Her eyes were dark pits. There was no light in them. Only the reflection of the rain. Margaret touched her face. Her skin was dry. Cracked. Like the earth after a drought. She was thirty years old. She felt fifty. The war had taken years. It had taken the color from her cheeks. It had taken the sound from her voice. It had taken Thomas.

Thomas. The name was a stone in her throat. She swallowed. It did not go down. She remembered the day he left. He was wearing his greatcoat. It was brown. Damp. He held a bouquet. Roses. Red. They were fresh. They smelled of earth and iron. He gave them to her. He said nothing. He walked out the door. He did not look back. The door closed. The latch clicked. The sound was final.

Margaret had kept the bouquet. She had dried it. The petals had turned black. They had crumbled. She had swept them into a jar. The jar sat on her shelf. It was empty now. Dust. Only dust.

A knock at the door.

Margaret froze. The sound was sharp. Violent. She did not move. The rain tapped against the glass. T-t-t-t-t. A rhythm. A heartbeat. Another knock. Louder. Insistent.

She walked to the door. Her feet made no sound on the wooden floor. The boards creaked under her weight. She placed her hand on the handle. It was icy. She turned it.

The door opened.

A man stood in the hallway. He was tall. Thin. His coat was grey. Damp. He held an umbrella. It was black. The tip dripped water onto the threshold. He looked at Margaret. His eyes were pale. Blue. Like the sky before a storm.

It was Arthur.

Her brother.

He had not visited in years. Not since the war started. Not since Thomas left. His face was gaunt. His cheeks were hollow. There was a scar on his chin. New. Fresh. He smelled of wet wool and sweat.

Margaret stepped back. She let him in. The door closed. The latch clicked. The sound was the same. Final.

Arthur closed the umbrella. He shook it. Water sprayed. He did not look at her. He looked at the walls. The ceiling. The shadows. He moved through the room. He touched the chair. He touched the table. His fingers were trembling.

Where are you? Margaret asked.

Her voice was thin. A thread.

Arthur stopped. He turned. He looked at her. His eyes were wide. Frightened.

I was in the cellar, he said.

The cellar. The one below the house. The one they had sealed. The one with the stone floor. The one where the rats lived.

Why? Margaret asked.

He did not answer. He walked to the window. He looked out at the rain. The city was a blur. Grey. Dark.

I found something, he said.

What?

He turned. He reached into his coat. He pulled out a small object. He placed it on the table. It was a ring. Gold. Simple. A band.

It is Thomas’s, he said.

Margaret looked at the ring. Her breath stopped. The air in the room became thick. Heavy. She could not inhale. The ring gleamed. Dull. Damp.

How? she asked.

Arthur did not answer. He sat down. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. He was crying. The sound was low. A whimper. A child’s cry.

Margaret stood still. She looked at the ring. She looked at Arthur. She waited. The seconds stretched. The rain tapped. T-t-t-t-t.

It was a mistake, Arthur said.

His voice was broken. Shattered.

A mistake?

He lifted his head. His eyes were red. Swollen.

I thought you were... I thought...

He stopped. He looked at the floor. His hands were buried in his hair.

I thought you were dead, he said.

Margaret felt a coldness spread through her body. It started in her feet. It climbed. It reached her chest. It settled in her throat.

Dead?

Arthur nodded.

The letters said you were gone. The house was empty. The garden was overgrown. I thought...

He did not finish. He did not need to. The truth was in the silence. The truth was in the way he looked at her. With pity. With fear. With guilt.

Margaret looked at the ring. It was Thomas’s. She knew it. She knew the weight of it. She knew the way it fit her finger. She had worn it for three years. Then she had taken it off. She had put it in the jar with the dust. She had forgotten.

Arthur stood up. He walked to the door. He grabbed his umbrella.

I am sorry, he said.

He opened the door. The rain rushed in. The cold air hit Margaret’s face. It stung. It burned.

Arthur stepped out. The door closed. The latch clicked.

Margaret stood alone. The room was silent. The rain was the only sound. T-t-t-t-t.

She looked at the table. The ring was there. Gold. Damp.

She walked to it. She picked it up. It was cold. She put it on her finger. It fit. Perfectly.

She looked in the mirror. The woman in the glass was still hollowed out. But there was something else. A flicker. A spark.

Margaret looked at her hands. The green stains were still there. The blood was dried. Black.

She walked to the window. The rain was falling now. Hard. Fast. It hammered against the glass. The city was a blur. But it was moving. The water was moving. The air was moving.

She took the ring off. She held it in her palm. She looked at it. It was just a band of metal. A circle. No beginning. No end.

She thought of Thomas. She thought of the day he left. The red roses. The brown coat. The closed door.

She thought of Arthur. The grey coat. The pale eyes. The cellar. The mistake.

She thought of the war. The factories. The silence. The soot.

It was all gone. Or it was coming back. She could not tell.

She placed the ring on the sill. It sat there. Gold. Bright. Against the grey glass.

Margaret turned away. She walked to the corner. She picked up the shears. They were sharp. Cold.

She walked to the window. She opened it. The wind rushed in. It smelled of rain and iron. It smelled of the earth.

She looked out at the yard. The rosebush was there. The thorns were dark. The leaves were wet.

She climbed out. Her feet touched the wet grass. The cold bit her skin. She did not feel it.

She walked to the bush. She placed her hand on the thorns. The pain was sharp. Immediate. Real.

She cut.

The branch snapped. It fell to the ground. Wet. Heavy.

She cut again. And again. The shears sang. A high, thin note.

She did not stop. She cut until her hands bled. The blood ran down her wrists. It dripped onto the grass. Red. Bright.

She looked at the pile of branches. They were green. Alive.

She looked at the sky. The clouds were breaking. A gap. A slit of light.

It was not sunlight. It was the moon.

Margaret sat down on the wet ground. The rain soaked her clothes. She did not care. She held the shears in her hands. The blades were slick with green sap.

She closed her eyes.

The pain was there. The cold was there. The fear was there.

But she was here.

She was in the yard. She was in the rain. She was in the silence.

She breathed in. The air was cold. It filled her lungs. It filled her chest.

She breathed out.

The breath was a sigh. A release.

The rain continued to fall. It washed the soot from the windows. It washed the dust from the streets. It washed the blood from her hands.

Margaret opened her eyes. The moon was bright. It lit the water. It lit the grass. It lit the ring on the sill.

She did not look at the ring.

She looked at the sky.

The clouds were moving. They were thinning. The darkness was receding.

She was not alone.

The rain was with her. The cold was with her. The memory was with her.

She was not dead.

She was alive.

The pain was a thing she could hold. A thing she could carry. A thing she could set down.

She set down the shears.

She lay back on the grass.

The rain touched her face. It was warm.

She closed her eyes.

The world was silent.

The world was still.

The world was hers.