I awoke, discomfort coursing through my body, my head heavy, reluctant to move in the faint glow of the moonlight. I was still slightly intoxicated, dressed in my evening attire rather than my nightgown. Navigating carefully to the bathroom, I leaned against the wall, almost forgetting the challenge of walking in my current state.

Desperate to relieve my aching bladder, I awkwardly maneuvered to the toilet, one leg rigidly positioned to the side. The full moon, peeking through the tall trees outside, cast eerie shadows into the room. I pondered the throbbing in my head as I relieved myself of the remnants of the night’s drinks.

After managing to rise again, I hopped to the sink to wash my hands, drying them on the towel resting there. The antique mirror above the sink reflected the unchanging rows of painkillers in the medicine cabinet, untouched. I hoped that merely gazing at them might ease my persistent agony. After closing the cabinet, I paused, taking a moment to breathe.

When I opened my eyes, the mirror revealed a reflection that was not my own.

Staring in bewildered horror at the familiar face before me, I stumbled backward from the bathroom, fighting back tears, memories, and the rapid beat of my heart. It had to be the alcohol, I reasoned. My only escape from a life that had spiraled so tragically out of control.

Naturally, it was his face that resurfaced from the depths of my troubled mind after drowning my sorrows in too many drinks.

Grabbing my cane, I limped slowly down the creaking stairs into the dimly lit living room. I switched on a single light, avoiding the stark brightness of multiple bulbs. The warm glow transported me back in time, reminiscent of old sepia-toned photographs tucked away in drawers.

The house remained largely empty, furnished with the antiques I had inherited along with this ancient Dutch Colonial home. Most belongings were stored in the barn out back. Perhaps it was time to rid myself of the old relics, the faded portraits, and aged documents that now felt unsettling. We had once cherished this place, but the nostalgia had begun to sour.

Thinking of “we,” I drifted toward the nearly empty whisky bottle on the end table, reigniting my quest for oblivion. Hair of the dog, I told myself as I poured into the same glass I had used earlier. The alcohol was necessary, but not for the physical pain. My heart felt like lead in my chest. I gulped down the whiskey.

I gingerly settled onto one end of the couch, unable to bend my left leg encased in its long cast, fearing to disturb my many stitches. Even the once-comfortable antique couch felt unbearable against my battered body.

“You’re acting like an old woman, Carah,” I murmured to myself, attempting to inject humor into my situation.

At just 27, I felt ancient due to my injuries. I knew recovery would come, though the scars—both visible and hidden—would remain. But the passage of time felt endless; each day, a test of patience I had never possessed.

As tears threatened to spill again, I uncorked the Macallan. I had never been much of a drinker, enjoying only the occasional whiskey after a long day's work… a shared moment with him. Just one more before retreating to bed, I assured myself, comforted by the sound of liquid filling the glass. I needed to keep the memories—and the ghosts—at bay.

“That’s better,” I sighed after a hearty swallow warmed me from within. I was feeling pleasantly numb and ready to contemplate the face I saw in the mirror… my beloved departed husband, Will, who had nearly taken my life three weeks prior. The sudden shift in him before that fateful event still eluded my understanding, but his reflection haunted my mind.

I recognized the expression on his face from the instant I had stabbed him with the scissors. Gratitude? Relief? That’s what it seemed. Or had I been deceiving myself, mistaking hate for something kinder?

Suddenly, I heard a crash—glass shattering. Slowly, I rose, drawing the knife that