A slushy veil, barely qualifying as snow draped the world outside. A dark-clouded morning, typical of a forgettable day in February. It was raining, yet the world was white when you looked outside. Tiny droplets were covering everything between the ground and the clouds, hanging as if suspended in the air, forcing the small winter birds away from the feeder and into hiding. Putting your ear to the world, you’d hear a rhythmic clicking from gutters, faint echoes of pouring water, and thumps of snow falling from branches and roofs. Quite dislikeable.
The kettle rang and I poured my morning tea. A sweet scent of cranberry wafted into the kitchen. It was Thursday I believe, or it could have been any day of the week, really—my routine differed little from day to day, month to month. Tea in the early morning, light cleaning, putting out some cashews for the squirrel who liked passing by as I brought in the mail, before filling up the bird feeders if they were close to empty. I would work a few hours before preparing lunch, eat lunch, and then work some more if I felt like it. Sometimes I would read a book, or listen to music as I watched the birds.
A pandemic had hit the world a year prior and everything still hung in limbo, a liminal space where everyone was waiting for time to unfreeze. I had my doubts if it ever could. Shops had been forced to close due to the lack of customers or disrupted supply chains. While corporations and offices moved everyone’s work to home, hospitals were overrun, and essential workers—as they called them—went to work like normal, hoping luck was on their side.
I had the luck of working as a novelist, making my living from a house up in the mountains some fifteen minutes from the closest village, forty minutes from the city. Not much had changed for me. I enjoyed a large increase in sales a couple of months into lockdown, and the graph my agent sent me every month kept steadily climbing the longer the pandemic went on. However, I didn’t have much to spend my newly earned money on, so most of it was resting safely in my bank account, or invested in funds according to some banker’s suggestion. I didn’t notice much of a difference, but the birds probably noticed the increased quality of their food, namely a larger quantity of mealworms.
Despite the government-enforced lockdown, birds still showed up, and so did one or the other friend. Everyone in the city was closing their doors; however, up here, quite far from the hustle and bustle, we didn’t have too many people getting sick, so most went along as if nothing was happening. A lot of us tended to keep to ourselves, and the ones who did get sick quickly quarantined themselves, and that was that.
I stirred my tea and took out the strainer, before putting it in an empty glass standing waiting on the living room table.
It really was a terrible day. It was still early morning so it was of course salvageable, but the weather didn’t make it easy. It also didn’t make it easier that I didn’t know what it was that made the day so terrible. I had woken up, and without my consent, the day had been decided. But was it actually terrible, or was there something else hanging in the water droplets outside? I snapped back to reality, shaking off any lingering credulity.
I drank my tea and ate two ham sandwiches, grabbed a handful of cashews, put on my jacket and wellingtons, and went outside. My mailbox stood by the entrance of the premises, some forty meters from the house. The road up to the house was thin and narrow, didn’t allow any large cars, and it was impossible to turn back unless you reversed down. The mailman, Yun, always drove up to my door to turn the car around, so it was fully possible to move the mailbox closer to my door if I didn’t want to walk all the way there. However, the majority of the year, I didn’t mind it, and it was only on cold days like these that made me consider it.
I put the cashews in the little tray I had put out last winter and opened the mailbox. The newspaper was moist to the touch and the pages stuck to each other. The rain must have somehow made it in, in the same manner it made it through even seamless clothes. I flipped the newspaper open on the way to the house, tucking the stack of letters under my arm without sparing them a glance.
Prime Minister Shows His True Side in Scandal, the headliner read. I opened the door and tossed the paper onto the little wooden bench and looked at the envelopes. One from the bank, a couple of love letters for the water, electricity, and heat, as well as a neatly handwritten envelope with my name on it, a friend must have responded. I tossed them all on top of the newspaper and went back outside.
There was a small shed by the end of my house, it held tools, wood for the fireplace, furniture I didn’t use, and a few other odds and ends I didn’t know where to put. I cracked the door open just wide enough and grabbed the large plastic tub that stood right inside, before walking over to the bird feeder.
I unlatched the empty feeder, popped the top off, and started scooping in the feed from the tub, making sure the mealworms were distributed fairly throughout the entire tube.
I hung it back on its stand, put the tub back in the shed, and traced my footsteps back through the slush, quickly making it back inside before the cold had time to permeate all the way to my bones.
I stood by the window and watched the bird feeder. The sky was a single hue of gray mass, completely still, far, far up in the sky. The sun often showed a faint circle through even the thickest of clouds, but on this day it did not show even the faintest of signs. I looked at the clock, and then off in the distance. The sun should have been above and between the two mountain tops which dauntingly covered the horizon.
A bullfinch passed by the window, flying quickly from its hiding spot to the shed, hiding away underneath the gap between the roof tiles. It looked at the feeder for a minute, seemingly pondering its hunger, before finally flying over.
It filled me with an inexplicable feeling of happiness to see the brave little bird make its way to the feeder, fighting against the weather which had forced most into hiding, including myself. The brave actions of the little bullfinch managed to inspire a few of the other birds. They too were hungry. They made their way to the feeder, some by flight, others hopping their way through the slushy snow, leaving small marks behind.
Inspired by the little bullfinch, I decided to get to work.
I filled my cup back up with what was left in the kettle. It was far from boiling, but still hot enough to make a decent cup of tea—and hopefully hot enough to warm me up. I filled a strainer with another tea than what I had earlier, and gently put it in the cup to a soft ding reverberating in the open kitchen.
By the end of the house, at the same end the shed was located, I had a room dedicated to writing. The room was sparsely furnished, featuring a table topped with a laptop and a small reading light, complemented by a solitary chair standing guard behind it. In the corner was an armchair, waiting beside its companion ottoman, and next to it, a floor lamp and a small coffee table that still held yesterday’s tea cup. There was a large window looking out on the shed, framed by two large red curtains.
Stepping inside, I flicked on both lamps, casting a warm glow throughout the room. I lifted my laptop off the table, and settled into the armchair, placing my tea cup on the coffee table and scooting yesterday’s cup to the side. With a sigh, I propped my legs on the ottoman and flipped open the laptop.
I had been staring at my screen for the past fifteen minutes, and a total of two words had been written. They were additions to a sentence further up, the part I had written late into the night. It really was a terrible day. Terrible weather with a cold so fierce it seeped into the house and through the clothes, a slushy, wet carpet of snow covering the world, and now I couldn’t even get any work done to set my mind straight. Another cup of tea was needed.
I made my way back to the kitchen and turned on the kettle, rinsed the cup, and filled a tea strainer.
As the kettle kept heating, I went to get the mail. The newspaper was still slightly moist to the touch, yet no longer so much that the pages stuck together. I opened the letter from the bank, a simple statement of how much money I had—money that the people who had sent the following letters expressed a keen interest in wanting to acquire. The last letter seemed to be from an acquaintance, who else would send a hand-written letter? I slid a kitchen knife into the envelope and cut it open.
Hello,
I hope all is well. I am an avid reader of your works, and especially enjoyed "The Bird Who Disappeared." I am sending this letter to you as I just so happen to be in the area and would love to visit you, and ask a few questions to see how you work, and what makes all those ideas come to life. Looking forward to meeting you.
Best Wishes,
Halcyon
The letter wasn’t signed. Was Yun pulling my leg? He did like to joke around quite a bit. I was indeed a novelist, but not the author of any work called "The Bird Who Disappeared". If it wasn’t Yun, then it must have been some poor fellow who sent it to the wrong author. I checked the letter and envelope for a return address but found none, just my name and address written in a muted green ink reminiscent of fresh bamboo. I shrugged and tossed the letter on top of the rest, all piled on the kitchen counter.
"If they turn up, they turn up," I muttered to myself. "I’ll explain the misunderstanding then." The kettle rang and I went back to my story together with my newly filled cup.
The second time I sat down, the writing went smoother. The smell of the tea wafted into the air and quickly filled the room as I hammered away at the keyboard. I wasn’t sure where the story was going, as was often the case, however I knew it was going in the right direction. All I had to do was follow it through, walk through the tunnel that had been presented, and see what was on the other side. The smell of the tea had lifted the illusion that guarded the entrance, and now I was able to enter. What I would see, I didn’t know.
The world became a blur, and due to the clouds, I hadn’t noticed that the sun had traveled from the horizon to its peak and started its descent. The teacup stood empty, yet I had tried drinking from it more than once. It was twenty past one when I got pulled from the tunnel by a loud bang. My back quickly straightened and I felt a tingly sensation make its way from my neck down my back. Was it the person who sent the letter that was here to visit me?
I stood up, grabbed my teacup, and went to the door, putting the teacup on the counter as I passed it. There was a small window by the door, but looking out, I couldn’t see any visitors, the wet and icy steps stood empty. I opened the door and peeked outside, the cold wind blew past me and into the house. There was no one there. I closed the door and went back inside.
Back in the kitchen, I filled the kettle once more, before looking out at the bird feeder. The food in the tube had gone down by a little, and there were no longer any birds around. The kettle rang and I looked back at it, but in the corner of my eye, I saw a small red dot in my periphery. A little songbird was lying just beneath the window. It was a little bullfinch, with its bright red chest and pitch-black head.
The bird didn’t move, its mouth hung slightly open, and its eye was gleaming between the heavy eyelids. Having been there for the past five minutes, surely just as still as now, it was likely already dead. The cold permeated all the way to the bones even through seamless clothes, and even the winter birds were hiding, laying still in the wet snow couldn’t be good. Hopefully, it broke its neck on impact, that way it wouldn’t have had to suffer through this cold.
I grabbed a paper bag and put a layer of kitchen paper at the bottom as padding, before putting a freezer bag over my hand as an impromptu glove, and walked outside in my wellingtons. I quickly regretted not having put on a jacket as the wind quickly made its way through my shirt, skin, and flesh, settling around my bones. I hurried over to the bird and tried listening for a breath, however, the cold wind weening through the pines and evergreens was all I could hear.
Putting my finger on the chest of the bird, I could feel a faint heartbeat, and a jolt passed through me. It was still alive. I carefully picked it up and placed it in the paper bag. I looked down at the bird and saw it close its eyes. Did it draw its last breath, or was it a sigh of relief? I closed the bag gently and quickly made it back inside.
The drier I had loaded in the morning had left the laundry room warm and cozy, so putting the little bird on top of it was the best idea I had. I checked again to make sure the bag was closed, and carefully poked a few breathing holes just in case, before turning the light off and closing the door behind me.
I stood outside the door to the laundry room and fell into a daze, quickly repeating in my head what had just happened. I shook my head, perhaps in an attempt to get out of it, before letting out a deep sigh and going to the kitchen.
As I finished filling my cup and prepared to return to writing, a knock came from the door. There was no bang, and this time I was sure of it, someone was here, waiting by the door. I put the cup back down on the counter and walked over to see who it was.
Peering through the window’s narrow gaze, I caught the sight of a man’s silhouette. He wore an intersection of casual grace and understated elegance that hinted at a life well beyond ordinary—or perhaps a life without any labor at all. His hair was a cascade of black with whispers of gray, neatly swept back and tucked behind his ears. Sunglasses covered his eyes, lending an air of mystery to his sharply defined features.
He was dressed in a manner that blurred the line between formality and ease: navy suit pants, accentuated at the waist with a belt, led down to polished brown leather shoes. The simplicity of his white shirt buttoned up and neatly tucked, was contrasted by the warmth of a thick, brown vest knitted. On his left wrist, a watch gleamed—one of such value that, even from a distance, I could tell was something far beyond my reach, regardless of book sales. Despite his age, there was an undeniable vibrancy to him, a posture and energy that defied the passing of years.
I opened the door.
"Hello," the man said, offering a handshake. "How nice to finally meet you."
"Hello," I responded, looking at his hand for a few seconds before grabbing it—a year in lockdown had clearly already made its mark. "Sorry to be so rude, but may I ask what brings you here?"
"Oh," he said, his eyebrows raised. He let go of my hand and scratched his chin. "I, uh, sent you a letter, it has for sure arrived—" he stopped, and his cheek muscles clenched. "I mean, maybe you haven’t opened it?"
"I see, I opened your letter a few hours ago. I’m not the author of 'The Bird Who Disappeared', I believe you’ve mistaken me for another author."
"You’re not the author of..." The man paused. "This is embarrassing, I meant to say 'Two White Canvases,' it’s a truly remarkable book," he said.
He clearly knew who I was without me mentioning my name, and he had a familiar feeling to him, although I couldn’t put my finger on why. As it felt rude to keep a man out in such light clothing in this weather, and he didn’t give off the feeling of a dangerous man, I decided to let him in. I took a step back to gesture him inside but halted in the middle of my step. "Are you vaccinated?" I asked.
"Vaccinated?" His eyes narrowed and his gaze diverted, seemingly locking on a point on the ground somewhere. He suddenly snapped back to me with a light in his eyes. "Oh, of course, yes, I’m vaccinated, already gotten my sixth," he said proudly. "And please, call me Halcyon."
I nodded. "That’s an interesting name, never heard it before," I said as I stepped back, and gestured him in. "Is it foreign?"
"It is, I’ve never met anyone with it either, it’s from a mythical bird," he replied as he stepped inside and started untying his shoes.
I offered him a pair of slippers. The floor was terribly cold during the winter months, so I always had extra thick slippers for any guests visiting. "A mythical bird," I repeated, before asking. "I have just made some tea, would you like some?"
"Yes please, tea would be terrific."
"So you’ve had six vaccine shots already?" I inquired as we walked towards the kitchen. "That’s quite the amount, I have my second dose scheduled for next month. But it doesn’t matter much, I tend to not go further than down to the town when I leave the house."
Halcyon followed behind me, our slippers sliding rhythmically over the cedar floor. There was a quiet harmony in our movements as if he had learned to echo my steps perfectly.
As I busied myself with the tea, spooning leaves into the strainer, Halcyon looked around, curious and unobtrusive. His eyes wandered, not with the intent of a thief, but rather as if he wanted to quietly explore. A gleam in his eyes spoke of nostalgia, yet despite the questions that surfaced in my mind, that gleam in his eyes stopped me—a mutual acknowledgment of trust, unspoken but firmly felt.
I grabbed a small tin of cookies from its usual nook and popped the lid off. We transitioned to the living room, settling into the sofa.
"It’s a beautiful house, have you been living here long?" he asked me as he reached for the tin in a familiar motion.
"Nearly four years now, in June," I responded. The rhythm of the seasons had settled in, yet a certain distance remained—an invisible wall that held me just apart from the heart of the village. I had lived here long enough to get well acquainted with the people in the village, yet I was still an escapee from the city, seeking solace, and a place in the shadow of the mountains.
"Four years," he echoed. His eyes drifted to the floor. "I’ve heard cedar only grows more beautiful as it ages," he said, the planks catching the light from the window.
"I hope they do," I replied. "I haven’t planned on leaving anytime soon. It would be quite something to see the house mature alongside me." My words trailed off. Here on the mountain’s edge, my house had become my sanctuary—a space big enough for a novelist tied to his drafts.
As I spoke of my retreat into this secluded life, Halcyon’s eyes flickered, his smile touched by a shadow of melancholy.
Our conversation wandered on. Halcyon delved into questions about my life with a curiosity that felt both keen and restrained. He asked about topics familiar to anyone who might have glanced at my public persona—snippets of interviews, fragments from articles—questions I wouldn’t mind answering. Yet, he stopped short of any questions that would be personal, skirting around anything too personal, and my novels, released or in the process of being written. His questions stayed with my daily life, the solitude of mountain living, and any hobbies I had picked up.
This omission of my books, deliberate or not, cast a shadow of contemplation over our conversation. The absence of questions hung heavy, echoing louder in its silence. It stirred a restlessness in me, gnawing at the back of my mind, why wouldn’t he ask? Despite the openness of our exchange, a part of me wondered about the depth of his interest. What was beneath the surface of his questions?
Driven by this void in our conversation, I found myself compelled to ask, to find out what was behind the silence.
"You mentioned a book in your letter that you mistakenly attributed to me, 'The Bird Disappears'?" I asked.
"Ah, 'The Bird Who Disappeared'," he gently corrected.
The title piqued my interest further. "That’s an interesting title. I was just a little curious about it, do you remember the author?"
He paused, a brief shadow dancing across his face. "I’m sorry," he began, his gaze momentarily distant. He shook his head, "in my mind, it was you who wrote it. I can’t quite remember who wrote it," he admitted. His eyebrows furrowed for just a second.
"I see, I’ll ask about it at the bookstore next time I’m in town. It’s not big, the store, being out in the mountains and all, but they might have it. I’m even shocked sometimes over what books I can find there," I said.
"It’s a cozy little bookstore, that’s for sure. I love the way they—never mind," he stopped himself. "If you find it, I think you’ll like it, it’s very much your style," he said and looked out of the window. "Which is why I mistakenly attributed it to you. Again, I’m sorry about that." He looked back at me.
"No worries, I wouldn’t have known about the book without that, and if it’s as good as you say it is, then I should be thanking you."
Our tea cups stood empty for another half an hour, and the tin of cookies grew smaller. I stood up and grabbed both of our cups.
"I’ll make us some more tea."
"No, no," Halcyon shook his head. "I’ve intruded enough as it is, you surely have better things to do than to entertain my nosiness."
I enjoyed our chat, but asking him to stay felt like a boundary that ought not to be crossed. I disregarded the idea. Now that we were acquainted, nothing stopped us from meeting again. I nodded and walked with Halcyon back to the kitchen where I rinsed our cups, before following him to the door. He took off the slippers and pushed them off to the side of the step, right where I put mine when leaving the house.
"It feels like I’m saying goodbye to an old friend, despite you being here no longer than two hours," I said as Halcyon sat down on the bench to tie his shoes. He slid open the wardrobe and grabbed the wooden shoehorn I had hanging, before sliding his shoes on and hanging it back in a familiar motion, sliding the door closed.
He turned to look at me. "The best and worst part about old friends," he said, "is that it feels like you’ve never parted when you’re together, and that it feels like a lifetime 'til you meet again." I nodded as he stood up and opened the door.
"How did you get here?" I asked, looking over his shoulder. "I don’t see your car."
"I parked down the road," he replied with a smile and opened the door.
"I see," I waved him off as he left, and followed him with my eyes through the little window as he passed the mailbox and set off down the road.
I did not feel jealous of his journey as he wandered off in the rain. If he parked down the road he had to walk for at least ten minutes. The cold would only need five minutes before it settled into the bones for someone with a seamless jacket, however, Halcyon wore just a shirt and a vest when he showed up at my door. I hoped he wouldn’t get sick.
The sky was still gray, the rain still filled the air, and the birds were still hiding, yet a small circle in the sky was now visible, traveling towards the west. I walked off to the laundry room. The warm, dry air that washed out as I opened the door crashed against the cold air that had come in through the door as Halcyon left. A ripple of goosebumps crawled its way up my arms.
The paper bag stood closed on top of the dryer. I turned my ear to the bag, yet the only sounds in the dimly lit room were the weening wind as it passed through the trees, and the faint creaking of the building as it fought against the cold.
I quietly entered, carefully unfurled the paper bag, and leaned over. I was hoping to see the bird, awake, looking around anxiously, waiting to see if it was time to leave, yet. But there was no bird, the bag stood empty. The muscles in my neck tensed as I turned around, quickly closing the door behind me.
The only light was a small window. I turned on the cold, artificial lighting, and leaned down to look into the open washing machine, then on the rack where the laundry from the morning hung—no bird. I looked under the sink, and behind the door—no bird there either. I looked in all nooks and crannies in the little laundry room, even opening the drier to check, despite knowing fully well that there was no way for the bird to get in there.
Realizing the laundry room stood empty, I reasoned that it must have somehow left the room. With quick breaths, I left the room. Separating the rooms into zones in my head, I meticulously covered room after room.
I worked my way through the house slower and slower. The more I searched, the deeper, and slower my breaths grew. The entire house stood empty. There were still a few places left to check, but there was no bird, the house stood empty and I knew it.
After fifteen minutes I gave up and went back to the kitchen. My shoulders sank and a jolt of pain traveled up my neck. I poured a glass of water and got out painkillers from one of the cupboards. Did the little bird somehow escape when Halcyon left? Fighting against the cold wind that blew violently, passing quietly over my head as I waved goodbye?
I slipped into my wellingtons and opened the front door. Immediately, the cold air thrust itself inside, the ever-unwelcome yet familiar guest. As I stepped outside, the world around me was silent, save for the muted crunch beneath my boots. No birds; the garden lay as an empty canvas, blanketed in untouched snow.
My gaze swept the ground, searching for the delicate bullfinch’s feet near the doorstep, but found only pristine snow. From the doorstep to the mailbox, and the shed, only my footprints were visible, indentations left by birds at the feeder, and the lines carved by Yun’s mail car.
Gazing towards the mailbox, I expected to catch a glimpse of Halcyon’s footsteps in the snow as he traced his steps back to his car. Yet, the world around me held its breath, revealing nothing. At that moment, the silence felt more profound, the solitude more complete. Peering at the ground, their footsteps were missing. The absence of their marks of our encounter as fleeting as snowflakes on a warm palm.
Written by Elliot Lakefield.
Illustration by Jaro Mettinisson.