The Fading

He was digging in the field again. The ground was cold but not frozen, and the earth turned over easily in his hands. His fingers were long and slender, the nails ragged but clean enough. He liked the feel of the dirt under his nails, the sensation of work. This time, he was planting garlic. Hardy stuff, it could survive the winter. It would keep the bugs away too, though there weren’t many bugs this high up in the field.

The ruin sat at the top of the hill, just under the branches of a massive tree, its arms hanging low, sheltering a broken window from the rain. He didn’t think about the ruin as his home. Not really. It was just where he lived, where he slept and ate. The fire kept him warm, though the place never really felt warm, not even in the summer.

He wiped his hands on his filthy jeans and walked into town. Two miles each way. He hated going, but once or twice a month he didn’t have much choice. He kept his head down. He didn’t like the noise, the beeping cars, the children crying. He thought the children were the worst, loud, messy, demanding. They stared at him sometimes, as if they knew there was something wrong with him, something strange.

In town, he bought what he needed, bread, butter, soup. Candles, of course. No electricity in the ruin. He always checked the little free library in the old telephone box, though the selection was hit or miss. Too much fantasy, not enough real stories about people. Last time he’d found a book by Henry James, which had been good. This time, nothing. He’d have to read Gore Vidal again, though he didn’t like Vidal much. Too pretentious.

On the way back, he thought about his mother. He hadn’t meant to think about her. She just came into his mind sometimes, out of nowhere, like a smell he couldn’t place. He tried to remember what she sounded like, but the memory was faint, blurred. She had been kind, he thought. Lovely, really. His father had worked hard, but his mother had been the one who made things feel safe.

Back at the ruin, it was cold as always. He lit a candle and set it on the windowsill. The light made the place look warmer, even if it wasn’t. He noticed something on the table, a small white envelope, placed neatly where he was certain there had been nothing before. For a moment, he stood still, looking at it, the edges catching the dim light from the candle on the windowsill. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of the paper. Unfolding it carefully, he saw the words written neatly.

“To the young man residing in this ruin,” it began. “Winter is fast approaching, and a proper home is necessary to stay warm. This place is not fit for that. Please seek shelter at the address provided below. Do not worry about payment for now. I will take care of it, my friend.”

He laughed, it wasn’t the money, that had never been the reason he was here. It was the racket, the lights, the people, all of it too much.

That night, he couldn’t focus on the book. The words wouldn’t settle in his mind. The fire crackled, and the envelope sat on the table beside him. Eventually, he unfolded it again and read the address.

15 May Avenue, Crosshill.

The next morning, he walked there. The field was layered with frost, the stems of grass trembling under the weight of tiny droplets. He wasn’t sure why he was going. He told himself he just wanted to see it. Not to stay. He wouldn’t stay.

The house was yellow, semi-detached, with an empty look about it. He tried the door, locked. Around the back, there was a gate. He climbed it easily. The back door slid open. Inside, the air was cold but clean. Upstairs in one room was a mattress, a blanket folded neatly on top. A small white fridge beside it, its long wire stretching to a socket across the room. In the fridge, sandwiches and bottles of water. Someone had left the lights working, though he didn’t turn them on.

He sat on the mattress. He would eat the sandwich, he thought, and stay the night. Just one night. He would leave in the morning. The garlic will need tending.

But then he heard a noise. A door, closing somewhere nearby. He froze. His heart raced. Someone was here. He shouldn’t have come.

A shadow in the doorway. A figure stepping inside.

“James?” the woman said.

He stared at her, his breath catching. Her face was familiar, impossibly familiar. He had forgotten her voice, but there it was. Soft, warm, cutting through the cold.

“James,” she said again.

It was his mother. He hadn’t seen her in years. He didn’t even know he had been waiting for her until now. The tears came suddenly, without warning. He cried loudly, helplessly, the sound of it strange in his own ears. She came to him, held him like she used to, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel warm.

Darren Condron is a final-year Multimedia student at DCU with a background in fine art and art history. Passionate about storytelling across film, literary fiction, and emerging media, he has contributed articles to The College View, exploring existential themes. He strives to craft immersive narratives that resonate across diverse mediums.