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24 I t’s Saturday. The rain has fallen steadily day and night this week, tapering to drizzle only to gather strength and pound the saturated ground once again. I sit in my office with Dante’s letter in my hands as I gaze out the window into the dreary afternoon. The Sound is a murky iron gray, its waters uneasy, whipped to white peaks by gusty winds. The house exhales an occasional wistful sigh, but otherwise is silent. It’s been that way since my talk with Fiona last Monday. Eerily silent, as if it’s holding its breath. It’s not the only one. I’ve barely slept all week. I walk around on eggshells, my nerves screaming at every gust of wind or tree branch scraping a windowpane. But nothing out of the ordinary has happened. There have been no more sightings of the little boy or the man
- Writer
