Days passed. Pulling weeds from flowerbeds that had been neglected for a long time, Eleanor patiently set her garden. She spoke to no one but the grocer and the postman, yet somehow, she became the center of invisible attention.
Samuel made up reasons to avoid Number 14. once to provide assistance with her broken gate. Another time to return a misdelivered letter. She met him with a gentle chuckle, was always courteous, never cold, and left quickly. He learned her name from the envelope. Eleanor. He wrote it down later in a notebook, just to see how it looked on paper.
During the night, he wrote in the attic, where the beams creaked like old trees. His poetry became softer, darker, and infused with recollections of conversations. Thomas noticed the change. The boy's gaze drifted more. He spent less time at the dinner table, more time watching the shadows through the window.
Thomas saw her in the market one morning. At the used bookstall, she was flipping through a Wuthering Heights book. He hesitated, then approached.
"That's a fine choice," he said.
She turned, surprised. "I always come back to the same books. They remind me of who I used to be."
Thomas nodded. There was something magnetic in her detachment. He found himself discussing teaching, the Bronts, and landscape as character. She listened, thoughtfully. When they parted, she smiled - not with affection, but with recognition.
That night, Thomas polished his shoes