The Ghost in the Garden

The moon tonight, it's a cold, white disk, slicing through the bare branches outside my window. Same kind of moon we used to have, wasn't it? Full and unforgiving, spilling silver across the lawn like a spilled vial of mercury. I stare at it, my fingers tracing the condensation on the glass. This house, it’s quiet now, the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own heartbeat thrumming against your ribs, a drumbeat of old, buried things.

It started so simple, you know? Just a conversation across a crowded room, too much wine, a shared laugh that stretched a little too long. His eyes, dark like river stones in the rain, caught mine. A spark, a tiny, dangerous thing, caught hold and began to burn. I was married then. Happily, I thought. Or maybe I just hadn’t looked too close at the cracks until he showed me what lay beyond them.

We met under the cover of night. Always. Never in the harsh glare of day. He’d park his truck a mile down the road, walk through the woods, a ghost in the shadows. I’d slip out of the back door, heart thumping like a trapped bird against my ribs, leaving a note on the pillow. *Can't sleep. Going for a walk.* My husband, a deep sleeper, never stirred. He worked hard. He trusted me. And that trust, it was a heavy cloak I wore, suffocating me even as I shed it in the cool night air.

Our rendezvous points varied. The old stone bridge by the creek, the forgotten gazebo behind the town library, the dense thicket by Miller’s Pond. The moonlight, it was our only witness, our silent accomplice. We’d talk, sometimes for hours, about everything and nothing. His voice, a low rumble against the night, would calm the frantic rhythm in my chest. He had a way of looking at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in a world full of clutter. I ate it up, every hungry morsel of attention, even as it poisoned me.

We never danced, not really, but our movements were a kind of careful choreography. Stepping around the truth, sidestepping the consequences, twirling on the edge of a precipice. The air between us was always thick, charged. A tremor would run through me when he’d finally reach for my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. A forbidden current, searing hot, spreading up my arm, through my chest. I’d lean into him, the scent of pine and his skin a potent mix, and for those stolen hours, I was someone else. Someone alive. Someone reckless.

One night, the neighbor’s dog started barking, a frantic, yapping sound that cut through the quiet like a knife. We were by the old oak, his breath warm against my ear, his arm tight around my waist. My whole body froze. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. *Did he hear it? Did he see us?* I pulled away, my heart galloping. He just held my face, his eyes full of that quiet, knowing sadness. 'It's okay,' he whispered, but my world was already tumbling. The fear, it tasted like ash and regret.

I started losing weight. Stopped sleeping. My eyes, they were perpetually shadowed, haunted. My husband, bless his oblivious heart, thought I was just stressed. He’d rub my shoulders, tell me to relax, not knowing every touch was a fresh brand of guilt. I’d flinch sometimes, a tiny, involuntary movement, and he’d look confused. I hated myself for it. Hated the lies that thickened in my throat every time I spoke. Hated the ghost of a smile I wore in the day, knowing the real one belonged to another man, another life, lived only in the dark.

It had to end. We both knew it. The stolen moments were becoming less about exhilaration and more about dread. The shadows, they weren't just covering us anymore; they were closing in, suffocating. The last time we met, the moon was barely a sliver. He looked older, tired. I felt hollowed out. 'I can't do this anymore,' I said, the words catching, raw, in my throat. He just nodded, his gaze fixed on some point beyond me, beyond the trees. There were no grand declarations, no pleading. Just an understanding, heavy and brutal. We walked away from each other, each step an amputation, leaving a part of ourselves behind in the moon-drenched dirt.

Years have passed. He’s gone, moved away, I hear. My husband, he never knew. He never will. I’ve carried this secret, folded it up tight, tucked it deep, deep inside. But sometimes, when the house is still and the moon is just right, I can still feel the ghost of his hand in mine. Still taste the fear, the thrill. Still see the shadows we danced with, and the woman I became for those few, treacherous nights. I close my eyes now, the cool glass pressed against my forehead, and the silence in this house screams louder than any confession I could ever make aloud.

It wasn’t a dream. It was real. And it broke something in me that never quite mended.