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Now the fog hangs thick over the cabin, blocking out the sun. On all sides of the cabin are the dark green masses of fir trees. The row of trees closest to the deck seem slightly blurred. The rows behind it become increasingly shrouded by the endless expanse of gray. The deck itself seems untouched. From the kitchen table, the seat facing the window gives an all encompassing view.
If M... were to turn her head to the right, she would see the denseness of the fog. Instead, she stares into the wood grain of the table, unresponsive. Long black hair hides her face until only the tip of her nose is visible. She is still in her loose-fitting nightgown.
Steam rises from two cups of tea. A sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream soon sit in the center of the table. M... breaks out of her stupor. She stirs a spoonful of sugar into her cup, then pours in the cream. The tea’s color changes from black to light brown.
She takes a sip of her tea. Her hands tremble slightly as she sets it down. Dark circles ring her eyes. She does not reveal the reason for her poor sleep. She does not speak at all.
The clock ticks overhead. M...’s cup is half empty.
Night falls. M... is hunched over the coffee table. The lamp’s light casts an orange tinge over her. On the table top is a sheet of paper. M... is writing to Julienne, a friend in town. She unscrews the cap off her pen. Her pen scratches against the paper.
The shrill cry of an animal echoes by the front of the cabin. A brief period of silence is followed by a succession of short, shrill cries that come from the side. M... stiffens. Her pen is poised over the letter.
It is impossible to see anything out of the window, which reflects the glare of the lamplight. Even when pressed against the glass, the pitch black night obscures all. The cries fade away, and the woods become quiet.
M... lowers her hand and continues writing. The clock ticks overhead. She folds the letter into thirds. She wets her finger and seals the envelope. She will have to go into town to drop it off. In the distance, an owl hoots.
The sky is cloudy, but bright. Early morning dew shines on the grass. It is nice enough to sit out on the deck. The deck encompasses the front side of the cabin. Upon exiting the cabin, two chairs and a round table stand to the left side. M... sits in the chair closest to the door.
Steam rises from two cups of tea. M... accepts the cup. She stirs in a spoonful of sugar, then pours in the cream. The tea’s color changes from black to light brown.
The cream is brought back inside so it does not spoil. One only needs to go around the kitchen table to reach the refrigerator, which is flush against the wall. M...’s back can be seen through the window. Her sleek black hair shifts as she takes a sip of her tea.
Back on the deck, M... does not make any attempt at conversation. Her eyes wander over the sprawling forest in front of her.
Her gaze becomes fixed on something in the trees.
“An owl!” she says in a hushed voice.
A great horned owl is roosting in a nearby fir tree. It is standing with its wings tucked into its sides. Its brown plumage is speckled with black blotches. A patch of white feathers circles its throat. Its yellow eyes are narrow slits—it is probably falling asleep. The bird is easy to identify thanks to its large tufted ears.
It is not unusual to encounter owls in this part of the woods. But great horned owls do not normally like being around humans.
“Maybe it knows we won’t harm it,” M... answers.
She falls back into tranquil silence. Her cup is half empty.
A white envelope sits on the kitchen table. M... retrieves a letter opener from a cabinet drawer. Carefully, she slides the letter opener under the flap. She stands motionless in front of the table. Her eyes scan the letter slowly. The sheet of paper still has creases from where it was folded into thirds. Her mouth twitches. She folds the letter in half. After a moment, the slender hands tear it into strips. She does not stop until the letter has been reduced to little white scraps.
Without warning, she rushes out of the cabin. The door clicks shut. The sound of crunching leaves underfoot fades into the distance. M...’s form becomes absorbed by the mass of fir trees.
Night falls. The sky has turned deep blue.
M... should have been back long since. Perhaps she has simply gone on a long walk. Or perhaps she took the car and went into town.
A low animal cry pierces the air. It seems to have come from the back of the cabin. Three seconds later, the sound returns. Perhaps it is the hoot of an owl. Perhaps it is only the wind. Before it can be properly identified, the woods fall into silence.
M... emerges from the shadows. The deck lights cast an orange tinge over her. The wooden steps creak under her weight. She does not reveal where she has been. She immediately goes into the bathroom, takes a bath, and goes into the bedroom. The door diminishes the sound inside.
M... must go into town to drop off her letter. To get there, one must take the dirt road onto a two-laned road that stretches infinitely. Both sides of the road are surrounded by towering pines and firs. There are no other cars out.
Small buildings appear in the distance. They grow larger as the car gets closer. Before long, the post office comes into view, a red brick square. Beside the entrance is a blue mailbox.
M... gets out of the car. The asphalt shines with recent rainfall. Puddles have accumulated in the dips of the sidewalk. M... steps carefully around them. She clutches the envelope to her chest. Her hands tremble slightly as she slides the envelope into the mouth of the blue mailbox.
M... says nothing on the way back to the cabin. She stares at the masses of trees by the road.
Evening comes. The shadows of the deck chairs grow elongated. In the kitchen, the lamp bathes the room in warm orange light. The clock ticks overhead. M... comes out from the bedroom in her loose-fitting nightgown. She sits in the chair that faces the window.
A great horned owl swoops down by the deck. Its large wings cast a shadow over the outdoor furniture. Shrill cries resound from the front of the cabin. M... tenses. Her fingers clench into a fist. She holds remarkably still as the owl passes by. After several minutes or seconds, she relaxes. She does not respond to the comment about her aversion to loud noises.
A white envelope sits on the kitchen table. On the back, M...’s name is written in a man’s handwriting. The sender only raises questions. M...’s father could have written to her, but they do not talk anymore. Perhaps it isn’t a man’s handwriting. Julienne’s penmanship is hurried and uneven, but her letters are usually joined together, whereas the letters on the envelope have too much space between them.
M... opens the letter. Her eyes scan it slowly. Her brow furrows as she reaches the bottom of the page. Her lower lip quivers. She folds the letter in half. After a moment, she rips it apart. In a few moments, the paper has been reduced to tiny pieces.
Her chest heaves with exertion. She gathers up the scraps of the letter and crumples them in her fist. She crosses the room and throws them into the waste bin.
She leaves. The door clicks shut.
The scraps cannot be put back together. There are too many pieces and the edges are too similar to be matched up. The smudged black words remain incomprehensible. If the letter was from her father, it would be understandable for her to be upset. But there is no reason for her sudden departure.
Now the fog hangs thick over the cabin. On the deck, M... sits in the chair closest to the door. She is wearing her loose-fitting nightgown. She raises the cup to her lips, and sets it down in one fluid motion. The tea’s color changes from black to light brown. On the round table is a white envelope.
An owl circles overhead. Its unblinking yellow eyes stare at the second deck chair before settling on a fir tree. Branches rustle under its weight. It is the sound of a door clicking shut. M...’s form becomes absorbed by the mass of fir trees, which are shrouded in the endless expanse of gray.