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𝑇𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇𝑌

A knock sounded from the door at about four o'clock, an hour after Polly was due to crack open her afternoon bottle of whiskey. It had been opened an hour ago, left empty by the fire that roared in the hearth.

Polly wondered who it could be as she staggered to her feet, fingers shaking in her own grip. Micheal hadn't been to the house in a week and wasn't due to visit until the following morning. Too busy working for her bloody nephew, she bet. But Polly wouldn't think of that. The rest of the boys rarely visited, too busy in their own knew worlds of the country, with their wives and children and money. The only other person who would come to see her, was Ada, and she was all the way in America. Working for Tommy too.

Polly remembered the knock at the door and hurried toward it in the way that elderly ladies did: heels almost stuck together and knees out turned. She didn't bother to look through the peep hole- Polly was too old to be bothered by the dangers of an unknown knocking at the door- but fumbled with the knob, her hands not seeming to make contact whenever she tried. The door had barely swung open as her scratchy voice barked out.

"What do you want?"

From the edge of her peripheral, Polly saw the person lean into their heels, as if taken back by her rude exclamation. Polly sighed, rubbing her hands over her eyes that were no doubt smudged with her charcoal liner. She hadn't realised how bright it was despite the ticking of the clock edging  toward evening. In fact, Polly couldn't even remember the month, so it may well have been summer. No one seemed to want to help her keep track these days, not even her own son.

"I'm... I'm looking for Polly Gray."

Polly looked up, raising her chin defensively. She didn't recognise the girl at first as her eyes finally lay upon the person who stood by the door. The girl was perhaps no older than sixteen, her frail figure the only giveaway to her younger age, as despite her lack of curves, her face was aged, lines creasing around her mouth as if from a constant frown. But there was a lightness to her eyes that Polly was able to stare at during the prolonged silence in which the girl didn't answer. Eyes that seemed so familiar...

"What do you want with Polly Gray?"

The girl let out a breath, blinking toward her gaze as if she'd been thinking the exact same thing that Polly had. But it was clear she knew more.

She swallowed. "She's my mother."

Polly didn't gasp or startle or cry at first. She simply stared at the girl, staring at her with sudden cold eyes, a gaze that could have turned to stone. Now that the words had been said, Polly could see no one but her daughter, her precious SallyAnna, in front of her, even though she knew she was dead.

Rage burned from her heart, colouring her cheeks like staining blood, digging crescents into her hands from bitten but sharp nails. How could a person do such a thing?

This girl wasn't her daughter.

Anna was dead.

She had only just come to terms with it, after seeing her in her room, having come one last time before she passed. This girl in front of her looked like Anna in all but the ways that Polly could remember. Her skin was darker, eyes darker and hair so much more darker. This couldn't be her daughter.

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Her mother had retreated back into the house with tears in her eyes and not a single word said. Anna stood outside for a moment, the sound of the odd car or horse or shout finally reaching her ears, as if she'd blocked everything out. The screeching of background noise made her shiver, and she almost missed the quiet crashing of the waves, no matter how hard that journey had been. It was only then, that her face dropped of emotion, tears having already dried a few minutes ago.

Gingerly, Anna stepped into the house, subconsciously ducking beneath the door frame. She suddenly felt tall; much too tall to fit in the house, as if she'd grown at the mere acusación. She was much too large, too noticeable, to fit in. Especially since her mother's reaction had been so drastic.

But Polly'd thought she'd died. Anna would have been just as hysterical if she'd thought her mother had died and someone looking exactly like her had shown up. And her mother'd had the same dream, or at least similar, to the one that she'd had. They'd saw each other when Anna was ill. That had to be worth something, to mean something.

Anna shuffled through the hallway, eyes wide against the darkness that clouded around, the flickering of light in the next room guiding the way through. There were no lamps, just old wax candles, almost burnt to the bottom, and the smell of smoke suffocated the air, almost staining it a light grey. There were lots of them too; candles lined the walls, the mantle piece and the coffee table.

Polly sat on the sheep rug by the fire, hand twisted and laying awkwardly against her mouth. It looked like her whole wrist had turn clockwise just to sit at that odd angle, mangling the loose skin that sat below her down turned lips. Anna frowned too- her mother seemed so distraught at something- and she hated so badly to be the cause of it.

With a hesitant step, Anna moved forward until she was standing in front of her mother, the heat of the fire burning against her legs. Then she sat, arms entwining around her legs until she was eye to eye. Polly blinked, eyes flickering from where she stared until she gazed at Anna, lids pulled frighteningly wide.

The image of her mother- face dark against the shadows of the fire- was so glaringly familiar. It sent shivers down her back at the memory. The memory of her dream, where her mother had looked so downtrodden, beaten up by her own misery. At least now, Anna knew why. She wouldn't think of how strange it was that the dream had been such a real image.

Polly struggled to pull a smile onto her lips, her face quivering with effort.

Anna smiled back... and hugged her. She cling to her mother with such force, that she left no room for her to be shocked or struggle. And Polly hugged back with just as much enthusiasm, nails close to digging into her skin as if she was holding to a life line at sea.

Polly was just too afraid that this was fake. She was scared that she would slowly slip away if she didn't wish hard enough, the tendrils of happiness slipping away from being and back into the dream that this must have been.

She didn't let go. They stayed like that for hours until the fire had died out and their eyes had no essence left to force into heavy tears.

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Polly's eyes flashed open with fright, the sound of a screeching door startling her senses. Her head was leaning against something soft yet scratchy- someone's hair. She blinked, the stench of alcohol finally meeting her nose. An hour ago, it had been a comfort. Now, it was little more than a bother or an embarrassment.

Anna was still here. Her daughter hadn't been a dream, nor a figment of her imagination. The pure fact that she was alive and breathing confused Polly to no end. Her visions and sights had never been so terribly wrong before.

She remembered the cause of her fright, searching the dark door way at the edge of the room. The fire must have died out hours ago, and a cool chill ran through the room; the single candle that was left was dim against the morning shadows. The door was shut a few long seconds after it was opened and Polly listened intently to the footsteps that echoed through the hallway, her heart beat racing. It was Micheal.

Anna stirred, her head lifting sleepily from her shoulder. Polly must have been smiling like a mad man. But she didn't care. This was the first time both of her children were under the same roof for years and years. And Polly couldn't have been happier.

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Since this one is so short and rattled, I'm hoping to get the next chapter out for Monday evening.
Also, thank you for all the votes on the last chapter, there were so many immediate ones!