The Waxed Wood Confessions

Anna fumbles with her key in the heavy oak door, her breath fogging in the morning chill. The hallway inside her Victorian house is silent, the scent of old books and furniture polish thick in the air. She shrugs off her coat, eyes lingering on the empty hatstand where Edward’s scarf hung last night. Upstairs, her phone buzzes, a message from Professor Andrew, his words clipped and urgent. Without pausing, Anna climbs the creaking stairs, fingers tracing the worn banister, heart thudding with anticipation and regret. Her reflection flickers in the hall mirror, blue eyes haunted, as she unlocks her bedroom door. The bed is unmade from last night’s hurried passion, sheets tangled and stained with memory. The buzz of her phone grows insistent, slicing the quiet. Anna hesitates, pulse quickening, caught between the comfort of solitude and the ache to be wanted again.

Anna sinks into the mattress, the springs creaking beneath her weight. The phone’s persistent vibration on the nightstand breaks the silence, relentless and sharp. Below, the sudden knock at the front door pounds against the wood, its echo threading through the floorboards and shattering the stillness.

Anna stepped past the landlady and pulled open the heavy front door. A sleek, low-slung sports car idled by the curb, its metallic paint gleaming in the morning light. She glanced back at Mrs. Higgins, who still gripped the banister, her impatience mounting.

"Is that his car, Anna?"

the older woman snapped, her voice sharp as she took in the luxury vehicle.

The car's engine died with a mechanical sigh, leaving the street unnervingly still. A tall figure slid from the driver's side, his movements smooth and deliberate as he adjusted his cuffs. His eyes swept toward the house, locking first on Anna, then shifting to the stiff, disapproving Mrs. Higgins.