The storm continued to rage. Mikaela stares at this man lying in her foyer. She saw the blood dripping down his forehead. She ran to the bathroom and grabbed a couple towels and the first aid kit. As she returned, she rolled up the towel and rolled the man on his back, resting his head atop the towel.

She kneeled down beside him, trying to see through the dark. The ambient flashes of light from the storm let her find where to blot up the blood and help him as much as she could in the dark. She couldn’t move him on her own, but she tried to comfort him.

In the distance, the storm began to roll away. Slowly the hum of electricity returned and the lights came back on. She looked over the man. He was still out from being knocked on the head. She didn’t know him, at least she had no memory of him. It wasn’t a neighbor, a friend, or anyone she could recall.

He was a tall man, lanky in form, and he had a kind face. His hair was a pale wheat, but it appeared to be dyed that color from something much darker. He was much younger, probably in his mid-twenties if Mikaela were to guess. He was dressed in hiking clothes and boots. He started to regain consciousness, and his eyelids began to flutter. Slowly, he opened his eyes, revealing the most amazing violet and blue streaked eyes.

Mikaela’s jaw dropped. She knew those eyes, but not this man. She slowly stood up and stepped away from him, unsure of what she should do. His eyes opened finally and he raised his head slightly looking about. When he spotted Mikaela, his eyes locked with hers.

“Mike, is that you?”

Only one person ever called her Mike. Miki, maybe, but not Mike. Just him. Her face turned to stone. “Who sent you? Why are you calling me Mike?”

Slowly the man sat up on the floor, turning toward her. “I mean you no harm. I am only a bearer of a message. I was told to come here and ask for Mike. I thought I was looking for a man.”

She took in a breath and composed herself. “Why are you here?” She needed an explanation from the man with the violet eyes. Her mind was disturbed. Was she being called back, after all this time? Had something happened? Was something wrong?

The man started to get up from the floor. “May I take a seat? I’m Frank by the way.”

Mikaela motioned to a chair and took a seat on the opposite side of the room, keeping her distance. “Frank, I don’t understand. How do you know the name Mike? Please, state your business.”

Frank began to dig in his pockets and pulled out a small box. “I am to deliver this. The storm caught me unaware; it has been a long journey.” Frank looked toward the floor, then looked up with sad eyes. “I’m sorry by the way.”

Mikaela’s heart sank. Nothing good comes from sorry. She trembled and walked over to her visitor, then took the box from his hand. His free hand briefly lifted and brushed her other hand. When he touched her, a shock went through her system, throwing her backward. She fell onto the couch behind her, knocked unconscious.

Frank stood up and looked over her. “I’m really sorry.” A tear fell from his eye and landed on her cheek. He walked out to the kitchen, then topped off the cats bowls, making sure they had food and water for a few days, then he returned to the living room. He pulled the box from Mikaela’s hand which was still grasping it, took out the emerald and gold ring, then placed it on her right pinky, covering the invisible tattoo encircling her finger. The tattoo began to glow as the ring slid on her finger.

Frank walked through Mikaela’s home, observing her photos and memorabilia of her life. He gathered a few items and packed them away into a bag. He knew how it felt to be called back; he hoped he would make Mikaela’s transition smoother.

Mikaela’s cats came out of hiding and quickly warmed up to Frank. He kneeled down and pet them on their heads, then whispered, “Don’t worry little ones. This won’t take long. I will send someone for you in a few days. You’ll be back with Mike before you know it.”

With that, Frank stood up, turned and placed his pack on his back. He scooped up Mikaela into his arms, and walked out the door, then secured it behind him. The storm began to rage once more as he took her into the night.

She sits, curled up by the window, her eyes looking out through the rain at the street lights reflecting in the puddles on the road. The warm cup of tea keeps her hands warm while the blanket on her lap protects her from the chill in the air. The rain becomes heavier as it passes over the house. Pounding sounds of fists smack against the roof.

The lights flicker and soon go out. Inside and out go dark. She sets her tea down and fumbles around trying to find a lighter and candle. Finally she lights the candle. The wick crackles against the silence inside, while the storm outside continues to rage.

Suddenly, a sound from the roof echoes down the hall. The cats hiss and runs through the room, their tails puffed out more than she’d ever seen. She tries to soothe her furry friends, but the banging moves across the roof, closer and closer. Then, it stops.

Suddenly, the rain stops as does the wind. Complete silence surrounds the home. As quickly as it stopped, it starts again. Lightning bolts fly across the sky and the windows become saturated in light, more than the brightest sun at midday. The glass panes shudder from the force and the doors push against the locks which strain to keep them closed.

She steps away to the center of the living room, fearing what may come. Never had a storm frightened her this way. She huddles up in the corner, away from potential flying glass, as the winds begin to pick up again and downed branches are thrown against her home. The cats curl up against her feet.

Suddenly, a pounding comes from the front door. A steady methodical fist beating against it. She steps away from the protection of her corner. When the lightning flashes again, she sees the outline of a person. Who would be out in this weather, this late at night? Should she answer it or stay away? More objects hit the side of the house and she hears a cry of pain. Then, she hears her name being called out and decides to open the door to let whoever it is in to get away from the storm outside.

As she opens it, he stumbles across the threshold, holding his head, blood trickling between his fingers. It takes both of them to push the door back closed, and she bolts the lock to reinforce whatever strength remains to keep it shut. As she starts to look at her visitor to figure out who it is, he slumps to the floor and the candle blows out.

Who do you think this person is?

A little retreat I’ve built in my head. Isn’t it nice to dream? Enjoy!

The paved road is pot-holed and broken. There was a time it was gravel and dust. It splits off the main road and takes us off to Grandma and Grandpa’s old home. Poplar, oak and maple trees shade the road as we wind our way, up and down the hills, past my own father’s house, and around a few other relatives homes before we see the weeping willow and the old home’s drive.

Another family lives in Grandma and Grandpa’s old place now; still a part of the family, but it’s not the same. Grandma and Grandpa have long passed away, and so we continue on. Up one more hill, then down, where our drive should be. Uncle blocked it off with a pile of gravel so teenagers wouldn’t turn it into a hangout spot. We’ll have to continue around. Some orange daylilies and purple passionflowers grow alongside the road as we drive on.

So on we go, around the bend, past another Uncle’s, and his field of corn, then back to a freshly blacktopped road. Turn left and just up the road, a gravel drive leads up a hill. There is our destination, the other side of the drive to our land, leading up to my uncle and cousin’s houses, which both back up to our property.

Our property is a future site for a future home. However, I doubt I’ll live here one day. I’ve thought of plans, how to make it welcoming, to bring my mother and her family together, but the timing isn’t right. Mother doesn’t want to be here at this point and we no longer fit, not that I ever did…

We settle in and say our hellos to my aunt and uncle. Sitting on the back porch, our land lies ahead. Two acres for mom, one for me, up on a small brush covered nob. My cousins keep mom’s side mowed; they have turned it into a glorious lawn between their homes. It is the perfect place for their kids and dogs to play and the fireflies to light up the evening as the sun sets.

Still I can see the place I’d like to build. Maybe a little vacation home might be nice. Maybe plant a couple pear trees along the drive; the driveway would follow the valley between our lots. The drive would lead up to the house with an open porch, rockers and chairs about, and an outdoor kitchen and setup for a firepit with chairs all around. As you walk in, a long dining table, with a bench seat running down one side, so there is always room to squeeze in one more. Wood floors throughout along with throw rugs here and there to keep our feet warm. Tile in the wet areas and kitchen to ease cleanup.

A gas fireplace in the center of the home to warm it up on cold winter days and welcome everyone with a little heat. Maybe two-sided, one side toward the eating area, the other to the living room. The living room would be inviting and comfortable, a sofa and some chairs, and room for a Christmas tree in front of the window.

A roomy kitchen would border the dining room. It would be reminiscent of Grandma’s, with countertops large enough to make biscuits, bread, and cakes as well to set out a family dinner. A gas stove would be a must. A side door would lead to an outdoor gathering spot for all the family to share.

A bedroom or two with bathrooms to boot would round out the house, whether they be upstairs or down. I might want a little summer porch in the back, much like Grandma’s, where the washer and dryer would sit along with any extra pantry items needing to be stored. The house would be quiet, and cozy, and hopefully filled with love.

It could be a nice little place one day, but for now, it will stay a dream. A different life requires my attention.