Through the Mist
By Schieloh Wolfe, M.S.
Depression | Hopeful |Cathartic
“The fog beckoned with velvet voice, promising oblivion, relief from unrelenting loneliness.”
“In her pocket, the phone buzzed, shattering the spell.”
The fog rolled in slowly at first, creeping over the edges until it enveloped everything in a cold, damp embrace. The days grew shorter and dimmer, sunlight struggling to penetrate the haze that had settled heavily on the landscape.
She moved through the mist like a ghost, her feet making no sound on the cobblestones. The echoes of her footsteps had long faded, leaving only a hollow silence in their wake. She pulled her coat tighter, though it did little to ward off the chill that had seeped into her bones.
The lamps lining the path cast a feeble glow, diffuse halos drowned out by the fog. Their light felt distant, intangible, like the memory of warmth from a fire long burnt out. Still she carried on, through alleys and squares, passing huddled figures that vanished like smoke when she drew near.
At last she came upon the canal, its dark waters rippling faintly, leaden waves pulling at the bank. The fog swirled over its surface, wrapping the far shore in obscured mystery. She paused, contemplating the ephemeral dividing line between this side and the next. Once crossed, there would be no return. But what waited beyond the veil? Colder isolation? Or perhaps a lantern glowing steadily, a safe harbor in the storm?
She lingered there, on the precipice. The fog beckoned with velvet voice, promising oblivion, relief from unrelenting loneliness. Its siren song danced at the edge of hearing, urging her to surrender, to give herself to the mist and be enveloped completely. How easy it would be to give in, to let the cold waters carry her into silent darkness…
In her pocket, the phone buzzed, shattering the spell. She drew it out, hand trembling. A message flashed across the screen, unexpected words from a faraway friend: “Thinking of you. You are loved.”
She read it again and again, fingertips tracing each letter, etching them into her heart. The fog receded ever so slightly as a tear spilled down her cheek. She wiped it away and breathed deeply, that lone message a steadying anchor.
Pocketing the phone, she walked on, each step lighter than the last. The lamps glowed brighter now, their flickering flames reaching through the mist. The heaviness in her chest began to dissipate, like morning mist burning away.
The streets grew livelier, people emerging from the haze to walk beside her. Their idle chatter and laughter rang out, the first strains of music in a long winter. Doors opened wide in greeting, warm light spilling out onto the pavement.
When she came again to the canal, the far shore was visible, limned in the soft gold of streetlamps. The water flowed on calmly, no longer an impenetrable abyss but a passable crossing, the lapping current an assurance of movement, of cycles continuing.
She lingered at the water’s edge, then turned away, returning to the winding streets washed in tender evening light. The fog had lifted, the chill had broken. Night was falling, and she quickened her step, following the lit path home.
