The Hostess of the Cottage

Laila walked through the door in a fit of shivers. Her clothes clutched onto her for dear life, pulling about the creases in her skin and melding with her scars of long forgotten. It was ironic, to say the least, that it would show itself in the most unlikely of ways; hidden behind a transparent veil of fabric. She was her own living scar, still breathing amidst the scrappy wounds of his touch, blued by the tension of the knot he wrung her tears with, the same knot he slipped onto her finger before he lifted the veil and promised forever.

That was years ago.

Now, she lived in a small cottage somewhere in the East Inlet road where frequent travelers would go through towards their destination in the virgin forests of New Hampshire. The drive would take hours, and hunger would often cause travellers to knock on her door in search of sustenance. It started out as the out-of-the-goodness-of-my-heart instinct she had whenever the door opened up to people with weary eyes and sunken faces. But seeing the sudden rise of tourists around the area and the obvious dwindling of resources, the idea of a small canteen business inside her little home seemed more promising than ever.

It was her new life, and this is how she wanted to live it.

Seeing others happy was the only thing that kept her going in a faulty marriage that she soon abandoned, and reigniting that feeling by bringing comfort to those weary would be a choice she would pick any day.

She dropped the bags of produce on the wooden floor and wrung her soaked hair, droplets that hung onto the strands lost their grip as her shaking hands squeezed them out. Buying produce that took more than four hours was the only chore she despised in running her canteen. The summers were bearable at least as the winds would harken a light breeze to her skin, but the autumn monsoons were the worst. 

Laila cursed the handful of travelers she would meet later, for the air was frigid and dry, and autumn wasn’t really considered as the best season for getaways. With that, she often wondered why they even bothered to go so far up north, but realising that not everyone lives under the rain and snow answered her question.

They wanted a change of environment.

And she couldn’t blame them.

She quickly changed out of her cold clothes and laid everything out on the counter top. 

The menu for today was hazelnut soup.

As she sliced and diced, preheated and dried, she couldn’t resist the jittery feeling of what’s to come. Yes, she did curse the customers who dared to venture in such cold weather, but the thought of customers coming over was riveting.

They held stories in them.

Stories that fueled her curious mind amidst the silence of the small cottage.

When she served them warm chicken soup in the winter, or a cold glass of lemonade in the summer, she would hang around and listen to their stories.

“This is the only time I could get away from my boss, and let me tell you - a trip without my phone ringing every five minutes is enough to make my year.” said a man in glasses so thick that his eyes took most of his head.

“My best friend suddenly passed away last week, and the last thing he told me moments before he flatlined was to explore the world, and here I am.” said a woman who’s bloodshot eyes didn’t mask the fact that she’d been crying for days.

“Photography is my passion mija,” an old woman said, one she didn’t recognize at all but held such warmth that Laila melted right in front of her. Her face tucked neatly in her arms as he stared into the old woman’s dark brown eyes who's hand shook while she held a spoonful of ice cream.

“And I wanted to do a subject on life. And what better subject than nature itself right?”

When she smiled, the corners of her eyes dug trenches deeper than the wrinkles she already had. The old woman took out her camera and shakily pointed it towards Laila, her eyes widened in surprise and she flashed a quick smile while still in the confines of her arms. She looked up at the camera and stared back at her reflection in it’s big lenses.

This is who she was now.

All alone without being lonely.

The shutter filled the empty silence after moments of concentration, the old woman held the screen up to her face and the warm hue of her screen flooded her in orange light.

“Look at you mija,” she held the camera out to her to which Laila took cautiously. Her eyes traced her face on the screen, it was a person she didn’t recognise. Her cheeks were full of color and vigor, her smile was soft and subtle beneath the wisps of her that hung infront of her face, and her eyes sparkled as the orange sun shone through the window behind her, casting a ray across her eyes that grazed her pupils of hazel.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered softly with a small smile on her face.

The old woman scraped what was left of her ice cream and packed up, but before she could retreat out the door, she turned to Laila.

“Would you be willing to be the face of my exhibition?” Her words were mellifluous and strong, a strength she had regained after a quick picker-upper from the coolness of the ice cream.

Laila was taken aback, her mouth gaped in surprise as the words around her fluttered into her ears and made its way to her stomach.

“I would love to.” she replied. With her cheeks tainted in bright red as she waved goodbye to the old woman, she breathed in the solace of the cottage air and bassked under the warmth of the atmosphere. The moment passed as soon as night fell and the cricket became her only companion, but she held onto it in her dreams and during the nights where the mornings felt like they would never arrive.

A knock on the door startled her, she had just tasted the hazelnut soup and deemed it ready for serving. But it was so early in the morning and the rain was still pouring; how could someone brave such an early drive in such drastic weather?

Laila turned the stove to a halt and carefully placed the still simmering pot onto the counter. The smell of the earthy soup wafted through the air in a flurry of spiral steams. As the rain pattered outside, it was her smallest contribution for comfort for the person outside awaiting her service. She cleared her throat and opened the door.

“Welcome to-”

Right in front of her was her ex-husband dripping wet, his eyes bloodshot, his body shaking in response to the spreading cold that was brought forth by the autumn winds.

“Come in.” she found herself saying, it slipped out of her tongue subconsciously that she scared herself as he stepped in weakly. Laila motioned towards the seat and hurried off into her bedroom to get a towel. As he patted himself dry, Laila scooped up some of the soup in a bowl and slid it cautiously towards him.

“Careful,” she said as he picked up the spoon, “it’s hot.”

He sheepishly nodded and held it up towards his mouth, after releasing a few blows to ease the heat, he indulged himself in the creamy soup, his eyes widened as his tastebuds awoke from the long drive.

He wasn’t the customer she expected to prepare the meal for. It was supposed to be for strangers with their own stories.

But she already knew his story, and in it, she was the villain.

The villain who never said goodbye after all she endured when she inhaled the gas he lit and fell into his arms crying. The villain who slapped him when he punched her, who spat at him when he dragged her.

She was done.

“You can leave after you’re done, it’s on the house.”

She stood up started to walk away back into her bedroom before he interrupted,

“I’m sorry.” he said through the steam, his voice was that of yearning, a tone she hadn’t heard in years. Laila pursed her lips as anger bubbled beneath the surface of her skin, slowly inching itself towards her face.

“How did you find me?” was all that she could ask in hopes of easing the slow rise of agonizing anger.

With nervous hands, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and slid it towards her direction. Hearing it slide across the wooden table, she took a deep breath and turned towards him.

The picture the old woman took was on his phone screen, below it read the caption.

Unknown Woman In a Cottage by the East Inlet, NH. The last photo taken by famed photographer Teresita del Rosario after her sudden death this morning.

The article was dated three days ago.

Silence fell on them as Laila stared at the photo. She wondered what made her ex-husband change his mind all of a sudden. WHy he approached her with a far too unfamiliar warmth that she rarely received. Had he fallen in love with the woman in the photo? Because if he did, she wasn’t the woman in it anymore. With him in front of her, she was back to her old weary self.

“I would like for you to leave.” her voice wavered as she bit back the welling tears that threatened to spill. Her vision was getting blurrier, and the screen was slowly morphing to only a speck of light on the wooden table.

Her ex-husband stood up and reached out for her, his brows upturned and forehead wrinkled with remorse.

“Please Laila, I’m-”

“Leave!” her voice reverberated throughout the room when she yelled out her plea. It wasn’t enough for her to pour out all her anger, but enough for him to recoil and take his steps back to the doorway. She watched as he walked with his head hung low and slumped shoulders, defeat gnawing at his physique.

When she heard the revving of engines drive away, her knees buckled and she found herself sitting on the floor as tears cascaded down her cheeks. She heaved in the warm air of her cottage and tried to bring herself back to reality.

She was free.

And no matter how many times he would come back to show his face, she was ready to invite him back, feed him, and throw him away;

Just like he did all those years ago.