Footprints At Dawn (Book 2)

Chapter Twenty

Edie led the way to the cottage door, opened it for us and stepped aside. I wondered how many times she'd had to do that over the years; open the door for relatives visiting their sick loved ones. I suppose she knew how they felt, having gone through it herself, leading up to the day of her own father's passing.

Hesitating a moment before following Nicholas inside, I wanted him to be the first person Thomas saw.

The cottage was just one big room; plainly decorated with a single-sized bed, a small dining table and two chairs, a couple of sofas and a fireplace.

It would be quite cozy if it wasn't so dark, dreary and lacking colour.

"I'll leave you to it," Edie whispered, closing the front door behind us, making the room even darker. I was tempted to draw back the window curtains, but thought I'd better mind my own business for the moment.

The man who was half-sitting up in the bed before us, his back propped up on several pillows, looked exactly how Nicholas had described him. He was thin and frail, grey unkept beard and hair, and looked much older than fifty-five.

But he had a striking resemblance to Nicholas, reminding me of the little painting Nicholas had of his father on his mantelpiece back at Clay's Cottage. I remembered thinking back then how much Nicholas looked like his father.

Standing motionless near the doorway, I watched Nicholas gather courage to step cautiously and silently towards the bed. Was he afraid his father was a figment of his imagination and any sudden movements would cause him to vanish before his eyes?

He stopped and studied the man, who was staring back at him.

"It's..." Nicholas stopped and swallowed hard. "It's really you."

Thomas cleared his throat before answering. "I'm not a ghost, yet, son," he replied, voice raspy.

"I thought you were. For fifteen years I thought you were."

"You saw me, didn't you? That day I visited your mother's grave?" He coughed.

"Yes. But I didn't realise it was you at the time. I never would have believed in a million years that it was you. I simply thought someone was trespassing."

"I saw..." Thomas coughed once more. "You at the window watching me. I panicked and hid. But then..." He paused, catching his breath. "On my way home... a part of me was hoping you did realise it was me. Was hoping you would come find me."

"I probably never would have, but... I had help... and encouragement." Nicholas glanced back at me, then faced his father once more. "But you're safe, father. We were careful."

His father shrugged. "What does it matter, anymore, son? My time's nearly up. Fifteen years of lying and hiding... All that time battling illnesses... I'm tired. So tired." Thomas closed his eyes.

"Why, father? Why did you fake your death? Was it because of Edward Doyle?"

Thomas' eyes sprung open at the mention of Doyle's name. "He told you what I did to him?"

"Yes, but I have a hard time believing anything that comes out of that man's mouth. I want to hear it from you. The whole story. The truth."

Thomas coughed once more. "And I will tell you, son. I'm just-  Having a hard time-" He couldn't finish his sentence. Once he started coughing, he couldn't seem to stop.

Nicholas plucked a glass of water off the side table and offered it to Thomas, who waved it away.

"What can I do to help?" Nicholas asked, a hint of panic noticeable in his voice. But Thomas couldn't answer.