“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.

Question

“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”

“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window—”

Answer 1

“—as if they had merely stepped out for a moment,” the niece continued, her voice trembling slightly. “I can almost hear the sound of their laughter echoing in the back of my mind, and I half expect to see their familiar figures silhouetted against the setting sun.”

Framton, who had been listening intently, felt a chill creep along his spine. The niece’s words painted a vivid picture of loss, hope, and an eerie sense of longing, grounded in a tragic event that had left such a deep mark on their lives. He shifted uneasily in his chair, torn between sympathy for the aunt's heartache and a growing unease at the whole situation.

“That’s a rather haunting way to remember them. One would think it odd to keep a window open for so long,” he remarked, seeking to redirect the conversation from the emotional weight of the topic.

“It may seem odd, but to Aunt Edna, it feels like an invitation to them. She believes it keeps the possibility alive, that one day they will return,” the niece said, her expression becoming serious. “It’s a little ritual of hers, one that honors their memory.”

Framton nodded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the open window symbolized more than just hope. It seemed an unsettling reminder of what had been lost and perhaps of how fragile their grip on the present was. The air grew heavier, laden with the memories and expectations that filled the room.

As the evening light began to fade, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned slightly toward the window, half-expecting to see something—or someone—come through it, his heart racing at the thought.

“Do you ever really think they could come back?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The niece gave a slight smile, though it didn’t remove the sadness from her eyes. “I think it’s comforting for her to believe that. And sometimes, comfort is all we have left.”

Framton contemplated her words, aware that the creeping darkness outside mirrored the unsettling shadows of their conversation. The implication of their shared grief loomed beneath the surface; it clung to the air like the fading light, blending memory with the present in an intricate tapestry woven with longing and loss.