To A Whisper 

1

 

The day ends almost as fast as the moon swallows the sun.

 

It wasn’t unusual; an eclipse was always something people looked forward to. 

I looked down at the trunk of my car. Time was slipping away, the darkness wouldn’t last. Taking a deep breath, I opened the trunk and stared at the carefully wrapped body inside. I’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, my hands trembled.

The body was heavier than I’d expected—too heavy for someone so thin. Strange how life could pack so much weight into a frame so small. Memories of her raced through my mind: her laughter, the way she always had a jar of peanut butter within reach. I shook my head. Not now. Focus.

Dragging her lifeless into the woods, I struggled under the strain. My arms burned, but I pressed on. She had chosen this spot, insisted on it. I couldn’t fail her, not after my promise to her.

I stumbled on roots and fallen branches, guided only by the faint markers I’d left on previous trips. The trees loomed like silent witnesses, their shadows stretching long under the fleeting eclipse. Finally, I reached the spot—our tree, her burial ground.

The shovel I’d hidden was still there, cold and heavy in my hands. The ground was harder than I’d anticipated. My muscles screamed as I dug, the minutes of darkness slipping away too fast. A single ray of sunlight broke through the canopy above, striking me like judgment itself.

 

“Claire…”

 

The voice was faint, almost a whisper, but it froze me. I looked around. No one was there.

 

“Claire.”

 

The sound dissolved into the rustle of leaves, but my heart raced. I shoved the thoughts away and dug faster, desperate to finish before the light returned in full.

 

Two Months Earlier

 

My phone was showing an unknown caller, I answer.

“Hello?”

“Claire, hi, it’s Susana McArthur—Wilson. How are you?”

“Anna? Oh my God, how have you been? It’s been years!”

 

 

 

 

After ten years of silence, her voice was a surprise.

We were friends since childhood but somewhere in between my pink dyed hair and her conservative blouses our friendship withered to the point of absolute ignorance of form. 

After having coffee together, it felt like no time had passed at all. We started laughing and reminiscing about our childhood. It was sweet, but there was something beneath her smile—something she wasn’t saying.

 

The moon’s shadow flickered through the branches as I dragged her deeper into the woods. The bag was unbearably heavy now, my arms screaming with each step. But the signs I left to guide my way help orient my direction. The bag grows heavier with every passing second. My arms burn; it’s hard. I finally reach the spot Susana had chosen—our tree… her burial ground.

I find the shovel I had hidden and start digging. The ground is hard, and my arms are tired, but I continue. Deep underground now, I look up as the sun slowly sheds a line of bright light across my eyes, as if God is passing judgment on my actions. I dig faster, desperate to finish while the darkness lingers.

 

“Claire,” someone calls my name.

 

I stop and look around.

 

“Claire,” the voice calls again.

 

I glance upward. No one.

 

“Claire…”

 

“Hi, Anna.”

“Want to grab a coffee? My treat.”

“Okay. I needed to get out of the house anyway.”

 

I get in the car, and she starts driving. Her eyes are fixed on the road, her expression heavy with thought.

“Claire, I need to ask something of you.”

“Yes?” I reply.

Her voice falters. She pulls the car to the side of the road and turns to look at me, her eyes piercing into mine.

“Do you remember the pact we made when we were twelve?”

 

 

 

I instantly know what she’s referring to. The thought of it haunted me for years after we made it.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“It’s time…” she whispers before turning back to the wheel and pulling onto the road again.

“What do you mean, it’s time?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Answer me, Anna! What’s going on?”

Still, no reply.

 

The moon disappears, and light begins to reclaim the sky. I climb out of the hole, dragging the bag. It falls heavily into the grave. I bury it quickly, my arms now numb, but I don’t stop. There’s no turning back.

As I finish, the sunlight exposes the full reality of what I’ve done. Its brightness burns my eyes. Dirt covers me; my hands are bruised and red from shovelling.

It hits me—truly hits me—what I’ve done.

 

A tear runs down my dirt-streaked face, cutting a clean white trail. Others follow. Tiny drops fall on the fresh earth, where my friend now lies.

These are my first tears since she died. I hadn’t let myself cry—there was too much to plan, too much to do.

My soul breaks open, and I sob uncontrollably, coughing out screams of anguish for my loss and for what she asked me to endure alone, without redemption.

 

“This is not a sin,” she had told me. “ How can it be when I’m in so much pain, and I know there’s no hope. I know there’s no happy ending to this story. I just want it to be over. I want the people around me to stop looking at me with pity. I want them to continue with their lives. I want all the suffering to stop. I just want this to stop.”

 

Those words…they echo in my mind.

 

I grab a handful of dirt from her grave, letting it slip through my fingers, grounding me to the earth, to this moment, to her.

“Goodbye,” I whisper, stepping into the warmth of the sunlight.

Was this Anna thanking me?

 

“Thank you for agreeing to this.”

“You can still change your mind. It’s not too late…” I reply.

“You, of all people, should know I have to do this my way.”

“… but I don’t know if I can do this.”

 

“Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that to me now.”

She starts coughing, violently and uncontrollably. Her face flushes as she struggles to breathe. I jump to get help, but she grabs my arm.

“It’s all right,” she gasps, catching her breath. “I’m fine now.”

I hold her hand, and we start to talk about the old times—the treehouse.

 

 

2

 

“I’m sorry Mr.McArthur but there’s nothing more we can do for her.”

“But she...” I reply, my voice breaking.

“I’m sorry, Mr. McArthur,” the doctor says remorsefully. 

 

Months passed after the diagnosis—months of doctors, treatments, and endless pain. I felt helpless.

How do I tell her? Does she even need me to? Surely, she knows.

Her coughs worsen each day.

What happens now? Stay strong for her. I have to stay strong for her.

But I hate this. I hate all of it.

No, this can’t be real. The doctor must be wrong. She’s only 25. We have too many plans, too many dreams. She can’t be dying.

I look at her, peaceful in her sleep.

Don’t cry, Steve. DON’T CRY.

But the tears come, slow and unstoppable.

She stirs awake, smiling weakly before closing her eyes again.

 

She’s so thin now.

 

I think of the little things: her love for peanut butter, the way she opened jars with ease. I smile through the pain.

“Please… don’t go,” she murmurs. “The treehouse. Take me to the treehouse…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

 

The planks are nailed together, crooked and out of place.

The gaps between plants allow light to enter. Ive been made with strands of wood, old discoloured weatherboards, black garbage bags, and clear plastic wrap. Held together with old wood that loosely mirrors my younger years. Every year, I hurt more and more.

 

I know I’m dying… I can feel it. I can feel all the insects eating me away, i can feel myself slowly breaking. Old and frail the children don’t want to climb me anymore.

I don’t mind all that much. I know I’m lucky to have lived this long.

 

 But the loneliness… the children’s voices are but echoes.

How I miss them… how I miss the stories they told. The laughter…

Yes, I miss the laughter most of all.

 

4

 

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The time. Always look at the time.

O.K. Anna has the list all ready for me:

 

• 10:00 check-up

• 12:00 lunch

• 3:00 check-up

 

That makes 4:00 the ideal time… O.K. It’s 3:30 now. That gives me half an hour to get everything organised:

• Wheelchair

• Clothes

• Umbrella

• Peanut butter sandwich

• Hat

• Wig

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The time. Must focus on the time.

 

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

O.K. Here goes nothing.

I walk toward Anna’s room, trying to be as inconspicuous as I can.

 A reflection of myself in the mirror proves that white never did suit me—even in dire circumstances.

“Hello, Anna. How are you today?” I ask.

“Good, thank you, nurse,” she replies, half-laughing.

I’d insisted that if we were going to do this, we had to do it my way. And my way, unfortunately, involved getting dressed as a nurse. Maybe all those film noir movies I’d watched at university gave me the idea, but it worked like a charm.

I helped Anna into the wheelchair. She wore a hat as a disguise, and we left the hospital, checking in all directions to make sure no one was onto us.

We got into my car and drove to Anna’s summerhouse. I remember coming here when I was younger. The garden out front used to be full of roses. Inside, the place was magnificently decorated with exotic furniture from different countries, especially India. Handmade rugs, a massive fireplace, a grand staircase leading to the bedrooms… even the kitchen downstairs was entirely marble.

But now? What stood before me was a bare, dusty house with white sheets draped over a few chairs. The floor was hardly visible under the grime. No one had been here for years. Until now.

“No, no, don’t leave the bags here.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“Remember the stables?”

“Of course I do,” I reply.

“Well, let’s go…”

“To the stables?”

“Yes, come on. Trust me.”

“O.K…”

I push the wheelchair to the stables and unlock the doors. To my amazement, it was clean and furnished—not as extravagant as the main house used to be, but simple and welcoming.

“I fixed it up. You know, the stables were the only part of this estate that I truly loved. Hey, do you remember my old horse, Bubbles?”

“Bubbles? Of course I remember! I met him the first time I came here. He was such a good horse.”

“Yes, he was. The best I ever had… He always reminded me of my brother.”

“Yeh i know, I’m sorry.”

“Well anyway, I guess we should unpack. It’s getting late…”

As we started unpacking, I noticed something.

“You know, this place really reminds me of my old house…”

“Well, I did kind of use your old house as inspiration. I always loved it,” she replied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5

 

“Wait, this is your house?”

“Aha.”

“It’s humongous, Anna!”

“It’s not that big.”

“Compared to what? My practically invisible house over there?”

“I like your house.”

“I’ll swap you,” I reply eagerly.

 

She smiles but then looks away. “I wish we could. At least you feel wanted in your house. Mine feels… empty and cold.”

I glance at the house, then back at her. Her eyes seem distant, sad.

“Hey, want to see my horse?”

“You have a horse? Wahoo! What’s her name?”

“Bubbles,” she replies.

We run to the stables.

“Want to know why we called her Bubbles?”

“Aha,” I say, grinning.

“One time, my brother Peter and I put soap in her water. She started blowing bubbles out of her mouth!” Anna laughs, and it’s contagious.

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

“Yeh,” she says, still chuckling.“But his gone away for a while. He joined the army. I really miss him. We used to do everything together.”

“He sounds like fun. My brothers just boss me around!”

“Not my brother. He’s the best. Have I ever told you about the time we snuck out of the house when our parents were fighting? We walked around until midnight, just talking and eating ice cream. I got so sleepy that he gave me a piggyback ride all the way home.”

“Oh… I wish I could meet him!”

“You will. He’s coming back next month.”

“Super!” I reply.

 

 

 

 

6

 

I look outside my window. A smooth breeze gently touches my face—cool and fresh.

It sends a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps.

I feel a hand on my back. A finger runs slowly down my spine, leaving me breathless.

I turn around, and Steve kisses me.

“I love you,” he whispers in my ear.

I try to look into his eyes, but he keeps his mouth close to my neck.

“Just listen…”

I don’t move.

“Will you’ll marry me? I promise to always make you laugh and I’ll always keep peanut butter in the cabinet for you.”

I laugh, and he moves his head to look at me. “See? Told you I’d make you laugh.”

I glide my fingers down his face and smile. “Of course I’ll marry you, silly. If I didn’t, I’d have to teach someone else how to make peanut butter sandwiches just the way I like them. And you know how long it took you to learn.”

He smiles, gets down on one knee, and proposes, just like in the movies.

“Anna Wilson, will you marry me?”

“I will,” I giggle.

He places a ring on my finger.

“That looks very expensive.”

“It took me $10 to win it from the machine. You’d better believe it’s expensive.”

“I promise I’ll buy—”

Before he could finish his sentence, I kissed him.

“I love it,” I said softly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

7

 

I see her at the window, staring at the moon like she always does. Her smooth, milky back tempts me. I creep up to her quietly and touch her.

This is the moment. No more delays. My blood is steaming, and my body aches for her. I touch her back, running my finger slowly down her spine. I feel her shiver.

She turns to look into my eyes, and I kiss her, passionately—just like the first time. I know this is it.

“I love you,” I whisper into her ear.

She tries to look at me, but I hold her gently in place. “Just listen,” I say.

I ask her if she would marry me. I tell her I’ll make her laugh, always. I tell her about the peanut butter. Then I wait for her reply, holding my breath. I try not to seem too nervous. I can’t let her see how much I need her.

 

“Of course I’ll marry you, silly. If I didn’t, I’d have to teach someone else how to make peanut butter sandwiches just the way I like them. And you know how long it took you to learn.”

An uncontrollable smile spreads across my face. I kneel down to propose, knowing she’d want it this way. She’s a sucker for romantic movies.

 

“Anna Wilson, will you marry me?”

“I will,” she giggles.

I place the ring on her finger.

“That looks very expensive,” she comments.

“It took me $10 to win it from the machine. You’d better believe it’s expensive. I promise I’ll buy—”

Before I can finish, she kisses me.

“I love it,” she says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8

 

 

Sweat.

Dripping from my forehead.

 

Sweat.

I can’t believe I did that.

 

Don’t think about it.

How can I not think about it? I just buried my friend.

 

But she asked you to do it.

So? I could’ve said no.

 

But she needed this. She needed you to do this.

 

I know, I know…

 

Talking to yourself is the first sign of craziness.

 

I need to get home. Have a shower.

Good idea.

 

I’ll shower and unwind. It’s not like I committed a crime or anything…

No, of course not. Remember what Anna told you.

Yes. She wrote it in her will.

 

But why the secrecy?

I don’t know… I don’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9

 

I’m sick. Cold. Sneezing. I hate it.

I can’t breathe. My nose is clogged, my throat hurts, my eyes burn, and I have no energy to do anything. My dog looks at me expectantly. He wants me to walk him. If I don’t, he’ll start growling and moaning like a baby craving attention.

I give in. I bundle myself up in so many layers I can barely move. But I have to stay warm. I must stay warm. I attach the leash and leave my apartment.

He drags me along, racing to smell every new scent in his territory. I can barely keep up. He pulls me; I stumble. He drags me; I move as slowly as a snail.

Things start to waver around me. People appear and disappear. Roads blur.

“Let’s turn back now,” I plead, but he’s on a high rampage of smells. I can’t fight him. I think he knows that, so he keeps dragging me along.

 

Unwillingly, I continue. Then I stop. “Please,” I shout.

He looks at me and sniffs my hand. He turns around and leads us home. He understands. Sometimes I think he’s the only one who does. We’ve been through so much together, my dog and I.

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and warms my face. It’s been cloudy for so long I’d almost forgotten what the sun feels like.

“Hello, sun,” I whisper.

I think of Steve. He’s away on another business trip. He’s been gone as long as the sun, but it seems the clouds won’t give up so easily.

Suddenly, my head feels heavy. Darkness surrounds me.

 

11

 

 

The radio blasts a Beatles song, as I continue driving.

 

“Did I tell you?”

I started smoking again. Cigarettes release me from myself.

The car swerves, veering across the road.

“Did I tell you?”

I started drinking again. Alcohol releases me from cigarettes.

I laugh and glance at her.

“Not talking? Giving me the silent treatment?” I sneer. “Fine. I won’t talk to you either.”

“Damn, I hate it when we fight, baby. You know I can’t stay mad at you… How can I resist you? I never could.”

 

I pause, staring at her photograph.

“Listen, baby. Now you listen to me. I don’t believe what that lawyer of yours told me. I never liked him. You knew that…”

I laugh again, tears in my eyes.

“That face you always made. God, I loved it. But you—” my voice cracks.

“You left me a message on a goddamn piece of A4 paper!” My voice rises, rage overtaking grief. “How could you do that to me? You! You didn’t even want me to be with you!”

I swerve the car onto the side of the road and throw up. My stomach aches. My lungs burn with smoke. My heart—

 

I feel like Frank Sinatra. Or Elvis.

No. I feel like no one.

No one at all.

 

I look at her photo again, dangling from the dashboard. I tap it. It swings gently, like she’s dancing.

 

11

 

Dark. Filthy. Murderous. Smoke.

 

I exhale. A long trail of grey joins the haze around me. The small room is stifling. Everyone is smoking. Guilt, jealousy, anxiety—or maybe just pleasure.

I continue to suck on my orange candy stick, my lungs straining harder with every drag.

The man next to me searches for a lighter.

“Hey, you got a light?” he asks.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my lighter, and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he replies.

I throw him a fake smile and turn away. I’m not in the mood for talking.

I lose myself in thought. Peter, I can’t believe I’ll never see you again. A hand waves in front of my face.

“Hey, wake up. I’ve been talking to you for ten minutes. Did you hear anything I said?”

“Excuse me?” I blink, startled. “Oh, sorry. Did you want to light another cigarette?”

“No, I was just talking to you.”

“Oh. Sorry, but I’m not really in the mood for talking.”

“I figured,” he says. “Most smokers light up, then leave to rejoin the others. But you’ve been in this spot for hours.”

“I have? Well…” I snap. “Are you spying on me?”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s just every time I’ve come in here, you’re in the same spot. So I just assumed…”

 

“Yes, well, what I do is none of your business. My God, I don’t even know who you are. Why are people so nosy?”

“Forget I asked, lady. I just thought you might want someone to talk to.”

He walks away, vanishing into the mist of smoke.

I feel bad.

I run after him, my steps quick and uneven. The music blurs in my ears. The room is suddenly crowded, bodies pressing in from every side.

“Wait!” I call, catching up. “I’m sorry. I just got some news a few days ago, and I… don’t know how to handle anything anymore.” I could feel my eyes begin to tear up.

He looks at me, surprised. Then he gives me a gentle smile and takes my hand, guiding me through the crowd. We slip between bodies, touching lightly, manoeuvring until we find an exit.

Outside, the fresh, cold air hits me. It feels foreign, unfamiliar after hours in the smoky haze. I start coughing.

He pats my back gently.

“Thanks,” I say between coughs.

He just smiles.

We begin to walk, aimless but unhurried. It feels good to move, to escape the chaos of that room.

For hours, we talk—about everything, about nothing. Passionate exchanges of ideas, fears, dreams. The conversation is raw, unfiltered, open.

The darkness around us softens into a pale blue. The sky lightens, revealing colours muted by the night.

“Come with me,” he says suddenly, pulling my hand.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

We walk for ten minutes before stopping.

“Here we are,” he says.

I look around, unimpressed. It’s just a regular street: trees, buildings, power lines, cars. Trash litters the ground, and someone’s laundry hangs limply on a rooftop.

“I’ve walked this street before,” I say. “What’s so special about it?”

“Wait,” he says.

I glance around again.

Then I see it.

The sunrise breaks over the horizon, and the street transforms. Warm beams of golden light wash over us, illuminating the world in soft brilliance.

It’s breathtaking.

“We’re probably the first two people to see the sun today. Hello sun” he whispers.

I laugh. The sound surprises me—it’s been so long.

He takes my hand and kisses it. “This is almost the perfect day.”

 

“Almost?” I ask. “Why almost?”

“I’ll tell you why…”

He moves closer and kisses me.

“Perfect,” he whispers.

I laugh again. “You know, I usually know the name of the man who kisses me.”

He grins. “I can’t believe we forgot to introduce ourselves. My name is Steven.”

I lean into his ear and whisper “I’m Anna.”