3

I washed the couple of dirty dishes I had made then went upstairs. I pushed the dark green curtains open and then smoothed up the quilts on the bed. Across the room, I walked through the french doors into the walk in closet. Big enough to be a small bedroom, the closet was divided in half: His and hers. Designing the closet, had been fun. We were able to put exactly what types of storage our wardrobes would use. This closet was much more efficient than any of the closets in the apartments we had rented where the most you got was a rod and a couple shelves. This closet had double rows, one over the other, of hanging rods on each side. The rods were bisected with drawers that went from the floor to the ceiling. Against the far wall, opposite the doors was a vanity with a bench seat. Anchored in the wall was an enormous mirror, big enough to be able to see an entire outfit. One of my favorite parts besides the closet itself were the tiles around the edge of the mirror. The tiles were light blue-green squares with slightly rounded corners.  I had found them at a yard sale a couple days before moving in. A whole box for two dollars! I had turned around to show him at the same time he had turned to show me a bolt of fabric for five dollars; it was the exact same shade of green.  We had laughed.  I had spent the next afternoon sewing curtains, the bolt of fabric had been the perfect amount for the living room and bedroom curtains. A beautiful shade of green that went with the paint we had on the walls. The tiles we had glued onto the mirror together a few days after moving in. 
Resisting glancing at the right half of the closet, I grabbed jeans and a dark green sweater from the drawers and pulled them on. Running the brush through my hair quickly and glanced in the mirror. Putting the brush down and running a hand over the bulge, it seemed bigger today, some days it didn't look different from the last but others seemed drastic, though I knew it was gradual. I had seen my doctor a few days before and all was progressing as it should. I turned sideways, my breasts were bigger but it was less noticeable in contrast to the giant belly below. I ran her hand over her stomach, smoothing the sweater over the rounded contours, feeling a small tremor and smiled; the baby was awake. Much less active in the morning, the baby settled quickly and I pulled on a pair of thick wool socks in preparation for the expedition outdoors.
Downstair I lost no time, grabbing the  snow boots, jacket, hat, scarf and gloves from the front hall and went to sit at the kitchen table to put it all on. All layered up  with house keys and phone tucked in the inside jacket pocket, I headed out the slider door.
The air was cold, a stark contrast to the kitchen, but welcome in its freshness. I walked off the deck, feet crunching in the snow at the bottom of the stairs. Closing my eyes I raised my face to the sun, absorbing what heat it gave. Suddenly eyes open I turned back around. The deck was clear of snow. It had snowed at least five inches last night but the deck was only slightly damp, already drying in the sun. Someone had shoveled my deck. Thinking through the possibilities, I walked through the gate to the front of the house. Front steps were shoveled. My car had been cleared. And the walk way between the steps and the car too. Who had shoveled and when? Sure that someone shoveling would have been heard. Could I have slept through it? And who would shovel around my house in the middle of the night. The noise. Remembering the noise from last night, the one I had decided was a dream when I found myself on the couch. Could the noise have been someone shoveling? It seemed more ominous than just shoveling last night but in the light if day, someone shoveling was the logical explanation. Maybe I had heard it while sleeping on the couch and my dreaming brain had adapted the dreams around the sound. It was plausible but the main question was: who? The closest neighbors were a mile or so down the road, one a family with two young children and a father who traveled for work and the other an elderly couple who had both retired years ago and seldom left the house. Neither seemed likely to be the shoveling culprit. Most of my family as well as his family lived a couple states away and were not likely here for a visit in the middle of the night. My sister was closest, but still two hours away. Though Finley was the most likely as she was closest, I wasn't convinced, it just didn't make any sense. Finley would have called. I would more reasonably believe I had shoveled it in my sleep or that there was a shoveling angel, going house to house anonymously. I sighed and laughed a little, I had no explanation for this bizarre, yet helpful, turn of events. While I  liked to shovel, with extra baby weight, it usually left me with a back ache. A shoveling angel was just what was needed.
Deciding not to waste the day with wondering that would get me know where, I walked back to the back yard and through the gate at the far end. About fifteen feet after the gate the trees began, the branching blocking some of the sun. Confident I could follow my footprints back, I just walked.

Snow shimmered everywhere, bright sparkles interspersed with the brown stripes of the tree branches. It was beautiful. Quiet and serene,  alone, the last moving being in this world of glass. After a while I crunched into a small hollow, about ten feet across, the clearing was pristine, untouched. Sunlight shining down. Walking slowly to the center I lay down. The sun was almost directly over head, a bright orb surrounded by a circle branches. My eyes were full of sun and sky, bright and demanding. My nose was full of clean crisp air, snow with the hint of evergreens. My ears filled with silence that wasn't, a quiet calmness at the same time loud and harsh. Every inch of my back could feel the cold, seeping through the many layers, a reminder to get up. A reminder I didn't belong in this frozen world, it was only a visit.  
The sigh was loud in the air around me as I sat up, wishing to stay forever in a spot that seemed timeless. I had created a snow angel that had no wings.  Moving to stand up but dropping back down before getting too far, my belly unbalanced me.  I tried again and then lay back down laughing at her predicament. I still forgot sometimes how hard it was to get up. I stared upwards while catching my breath, when a shadow fell over me. Blinking up I saw a person in shadow, the sun directly behind their head. 

2

I woke up quickly, eyes open wide. It took a few seconds to process as I stared at the ceiling. Confused momentarily at the smooth white expanse above. Didn't the bedroom have swirls on the ceiling?  I glimpsed bookshelves out the corner of my eye turning to look at the floor to ceiling shelves that flanked the living room's fireplace. I must have fallen asleep on the couch; it was rare that this happened but what other explanation was there to waking up downstairs. Very strange. The last thing I remember was being in the kitchen to check, a lightbulb? My head felt a bit fuzzy.
sitting up, I found the clock on the wall, 2:03. What had woken up me up? Since the baby, I slept soundly through the night unlike before when it would take forever to fall asleep and it was a rarity if I slept until morning. Standing up I was instantly dizzy; I braced on the arm of the couch and waited for brilliant green swirls faded. Green? Why was I seeing green, the other times I've been dizzy, my vision just blurred around the edges. This was bright green and it filled my whole vision, until it finally faded. The weirdest part was that the green felt familiar, like I was forgetting something that I was supposed to know.
Shrugging off what was decidedly just a weird night, I headed for bed. Then I remembered why I had been in the kitchen.  The noise downstairs I just had to investigate. I recalled being in the kitchen and then nothing. Until I woke up on the couch. I don't remember what the noise was though. There no way I could have gone to sleep without knowing but then how did I end up asleep on the couch. It seemed unlikely that I had dreamed the noise and subsequent investigation but dreaming after falling asleep on the couch did seem the only explanation. Feeling a bit drained from the lateness and the coldness from the floor seeping through my socks, I gave up thinking in exchange for sleep.  

The blankets warmed up quickly and I closed my eyes in the bliss of a warm and comfortable bed on a cold night. Sleep was quick and dreams that wouldn't be remembered were plenty. Dreams of green.

Sunlight was seeping around the edges of the bedroom curtains when I finally opened my eyes. The clock on the nightstand displayed 8:30am, a bit later than usual; a 6:00am wake up was more normal. But I felt rested and full of energy so I must have needed the extra sleep, probably because of waking up at two in the morning. I rolled out of bed, tied on my favorite robe, fuzzy blue with penguins on it, and headed for the kitchen.  In the kitchen, instead of turning on the lights, I pushed aside the curtains covering the window over the sink as well as the slider door, loving the natural light. Eyes adjusting the the brightness showed the a few inches of snow sparkling in the sunlight. I love the snow. I love to watch it swirling down around me to catch in my hair or watch it falling shimmering and sparkling while sitting warm by a fire. The storm had started the afternoon before and it had left the house feeling very cozy. It was fresh and undisturbed, brand new and pristine, a winter wonderland.
Knowing once outside, I wouldn't want to come back in to eat, I pushed the button the the coffee maker, set to go the night before with a favorite decaf breakfast blend and popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. Then grabbed homemade jam from the fridge, remembering the many days picking berries and the day we had spent canning them into jams. Every weekend in September we had picked berries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries and strawberries and then froze them until it was time to can. We had found the farm just down the road, only about a mile, and each picking day we were out of the house early. The sun low in the sky, a slight chill still in the air that encouraged closeness as we walked. His arm over my shoulders and mine around his waist, it was idyllic. By the time we reached the fields, baskets in hand, we had both warmed up. We walked down the rows of bushes five feet tall, full of branches heavy and bending with the weight of the berries. We each picked a different side, occasionally switching and exchanging a kiss as we passed. As we walked and picked, we talked. About how delicious the berries were and how much fun it was.  About other things that needed to get done that day. About making it a tradition to go berry picking every year and eventually bring our children too. But that wouldn't happen now that he was gone. Sure I could and would bring this baby to the farm, but it wouldn't be the same without him. Nothing would ever be the same.
The toast popped up startling me back to the present. Placing the toast on a plate then filled my favorite green mug, that fit my hands perfectly, with coffee. I spread jam on the toast and put a little sugar in the coffee then climbed onto one of the stools at the counter to eat. I took a bite of toast then pulled one of the books I was reading from the pile on the counter. I usually left the books in the room I read them in. This particular book, a baby book detailing what happened each month for a baby and the mother, I had been reading the last few mornings while eating breakfast. I was also in the middle of a romance novel about an egyptian princess, that was nice to read in the comfy chair by the fire and a science fiction novel about aliens that was kept in my purse. The way I read books, a few at a time, and 80 in a year, always made sense to me but not to other people. There didn't seem to be a lot of other people who inhaled books. So trying to get someone who maybe read one or two books in a year to understand this passion and love of books, was difficult. I only knew two people who understood my relationship with books. My sister, Finley, who also inhaled books, and Him. My Charlie.

When we first started dating ten years early I was just starting my senior year of high school and he had just graduated a different high school.  At the end of our first date, we had sat holding hands in an empty movie theater when he had leaned over and kissed me gently and completely.  That was it. I was gone, completely in love, we hadn't known each other long but the rightness was with every cell in my body. At the end of our fourth date I had shown him the bedroom I had lived in since I was three. He had walked in and laughed. Unable to afford more than two bookshelves, books were two deep and stacked two high on the shelves as well as any flat surface including the floor. I had stood in the doorway giving him space to take it in or run out the door. I remember holding my breath hoping he wouldn't mind the craziness. I had admitted on our first date that I liked to read, when he asked about my hobbies. Standing in the doorway I wondered if my minimization of my book obsession scare him off. But then he had turned around and was smiling that smile and laughing that laugh that I already loved so much. "You like to read, huh?" He had hugged me then and as I squeezed him back I had felt accepted and loved. We had never looked back.
Finley has the same love of books and understands completely, inhaling books at a similar rate. We had often recommended each other books or exchanged for ones missing from either collection. It was nice to have someone understand and talk about the books with, especially since we had similar preferences. In the last couple years we talked less and less though. Finley had been offered and accepted a great job teaching math at one of the top high schools in the state and thus had less time for reading novels. As happy as I am for Finley to have her dream job, I missed her a lot. And when we had moved here, just over a year ago, we were even farther away from each other. A four hour roundtrip drive was difficult to fit in while working a full time job and grading papers, so I had only seen my sister twice in the last year. Once when we said good bye to Him and the other two months ago to check up on me. I know she worries about me, living alone in such a big house, secluded and pregnant. She had even tried to convince me to stay at her apartment so I wouldn't be alone. I had politely refused, determined to hold on to this house and its memories as long as possible.

1

There it was again. This time I heard it clearly. Sitting up in bed I turned my head and sat still, hardly breathing, in order hear it again. Seconds ticked by, the hand on the clock loud in the silent room. Outside the wind whipped around, muffled by the window panes. I was almost ready to dismiss the noise like I had five or six times in the last half hour; alone the house it was easy to believe I was hearing things, if only for my sanity. Just as I started to lay back down, I heard it, in a brief calming of the wind, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. A scraping, so obviously not the wind and there were no trees close enough to scrap the window. There was no way I could ignore it which meant I would not be getting any sleep until I determined exactly what had made the sound.
Pulling on my robe, kept at the end of the bed, I crept to the bedroom door and then paused to listen. The silence of the house screamed in my ears making me feel jumpy. I knew all the doors and windows were locked and that I should be safe inside but being alone made me question my resolve. I thought about my nightly routine in my head, trying to determine if I had indeed locked all could-be entrances or simply imagined it. I admit I had been distracted as I shut the house up for the night. At six months, the baby enjoyed somersaulting around my stomach, especially in the evenings. The nightly kicks and jabs often distracting me enough so that the most I could do was close my eyes and wait until the baby calmed down. Most nights it was three or four bursts of activity usually no more than a few minutes long. 
That night the baby had been more forceful and by the end of the session I was breathless from the kicking. But other than that the night had been routine. I put away the dinner dishes, a short task since it was just me; I turned off all but the light above the stove.  I checked to make sure both the front and back door were secure, even though I was in the habit of locking the door behind me when I came inside. Then I had headed upstairs. 
Shaking my head a little, I told myself all was secured and safe in the house and moved forward into the hall. Nothing to worry about.
The house was less than a year old and there was a lack of creaking floorboards as I eased along the hall to the top of the staircase. I gripped the railing as I went, knowing the big baby belly threw my balance off. I sighed as my hand slid along the dark polished wood, remembering a day a little more than a year ago when He had surprised me with the staircase I had always pictured in the house I had always pictured it in. The sensation of His hands over my eyes, the laughter as I stumbled over the threshold, I could see and feel it clearly. The moment when he finally took his hands away and I opened my eyes. Seeing only him, his excitement in surprising me, his eyes shined and he smiled my favorite smile. The same smile he wore the day we first met; the smile that always left me weak and breathless. I remembered that treasured moment for him and how he was, how we were. The memory was not about the perfect house that we both had loved. But the memory of him. Lately happy thoughts tended to end with sadness or longing when I realized there wouldn't be any new memories with Him. But I was determined to focus on happy memories for the baby's sake as well as my own. I could not dwell on things that would never change. There would be no new memories of Him. When once almost all new memories would feature the two of us together, now I lived knowing the old memories were all I would ever have.

At the bottom of the curved stairs was the front door and even in the dim light trickling down from my bedroom I could see it was still locked and just as it had been a couple hours before.
To the right was the living room, the heavy drapes over the large windows still closed. Stepping into the living room anyways I paused to listen. Almost immediately hearing the sound again, much louder now, I whipped around, knowing now it was coming from the direction of the kitchen. 
More cautious, one hand brushing the wall as I walked toward the archway that led to the kitchen. As I got closer I squinted, trying to see if the back door was still secure before venturing in. Only a few feet from the archway I stopped chilled by what I saw. All was darkness in the kitchen, despite the fact the kitchen light was on when I went upstairs. I knew I had left the light on. Trying to rationalize the darkness with reassurances such as I had forgotten to turn it on or the bulb had burned out. But even as I repeated them over and over, dread filled me. Something was wrong. I was alone, miles from any neighbor, and there were scraping noises radiating from the kitchen from an unknown source. I was scared.
But I was also not the same woman who had first come to live here. The first few months were full of new sounds, which is normal in a new house in a new town and He always was my knight in shining armor,  checking each time. Since losing him three months ago, now if I wanted to be reassured, I had to check or no one would. So here I was, checking a noise that would of course be like all the rest. Something harmless and obvious that was only scary in the not knowing. These thoughts did nothing to reassure me as I  stood frozen in the dark. Telling myself to be brave didn't mean I actually was.
I drew in a deep breath and straightened my shoulders, I would walk in now or never would. If the something making the noise decided to cry out again before I got into the kitchen, I knew I would run as fast as I could the other direction, never to know, never to sleep peacefully again. 
Forcing my feet to move forward, one step, then two, all to soon I was in the archway, peering across the space at the backdoor. Which surprisingly, because I had since convinced myself that an axe murdered was lurking somewhere within, was closed and locked as I had left it. I blew out the breath I was holding and took another step into the kitchen. Hearing nor seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I turned left and switched on the overhead lights.
The lights revealed an empty kitchen and I shook my head, a little embarrassed at the overreaction. I moved to the stove to look at the bulb. There was no bulb. I stared in confusion at the empty socket. It didn't make sense, absolutely sure there was a light bulb the night before, and with no recollection of removing it. Changing light bulbs had been his job, since I couldn't reach most of them, so until one burnt out I wouldn't have even thought about touching one.  Trying to find a logical reason the bulb was missing when I hadn't touched it and there hadn't been another person in the house for more than two months. 
As I turned to face the rest of the kitchen, there was a creak. I froze, knowing each sound of the house after spending many sleepless nights listening. It sounded like the basement door, which was a relatively new sound only a few weeks old and had yet to fix, WD-40 was on my list. It creaked when opened, I wasn't opening so who was. Someone was in the house. 
I took the four steps, ready to step through the arch, and collided with a very solid and very human object, to which I promptly bounced off. Before hitting the floor strong hands caught and stabilized me. My eyes moved up to stare.  I stopped breathing as I stared into the greenest eyes I've ever seen. In my peripheral vision I saw his hand come up to touch my temple, it was almost a caress and then all was 
darkness.