The fog came early that night, crawling in from the river like a living thing, slow and deliberate. It swallowed the streetlamps one by one, turning the world into a blur of pale light and shadows. I remember thinking it felt wrong—like the town itself was holding its breath.
That was the night she left me.
Her name was Mira. Even now, saying it in my head feels like touching a bruise that never healed.
We met in the most ordinary way, which is perhaps why our love felt so unreal later. She arrived in town one winter afternoon, carrying a small suitcase and wearing a blue scarf that looked too bright for the grey day. I was working at my father's old bookshop near the river—dusty shelves, crooked windows, and stories that smelled of time. She walked in, shook the cold from her hands, and asked for a book about forgotten places.
"Places that no longer exist?" I asked.
She smiled, but there was something distant in her eyes.
"Places that exist… just not for everyone."
From that moment, she became a part of my days. She would sit by the window while I worked, reading in silence, the fog often pressing its face against the glass as if trying to listen. She loved the evenings most—when the river turned silver and the town lights shimmered like fragile stars.
Yet there were things about Mira that never quite made sense.
She never stayed out after midnight. No matter how alive the night felt, she would always look at the clock, her face tightening, and say, "I have to go."
She never spoke of her past. When I asked, she'd brush my question aside with a soft laugh, as though it belonged to someone else.
And she was afraid of the fog.
On foggy nights, she held my hand tighter, her fingers cold even in summer.
"It remembers," she once whispered, staring at the river.
"What does?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Forget I said that."
I should have known then that love can be a beautiful lie we choose to believe.
The night she left, the fog was thicker than I had ever seen. It rolled through the streets like a pale ocean, muffling sound and bending light. Mira came to the shop just before closing. She wasn't wearing her blue scarf.
"You're late," I said, trying to sound casual.
"I know," she replied, her voice trembling. "I didn't want to come. But I had to."
There was fear in her eyes—real fear, sharp and raw.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
She reached into her coat and pulled out an old silver pendant, its surface etched with symbols I didn't recognize.
"This is why I can't stay," she said.
Before I could ask, the fog pressed against the door, seeping through the cracks like smoke. The bell above the door rang without anyone touching it.
"Mira," I whispered, my heart pounding, "what's happening?"
She touched my face, memorizing it like a prayer.
"I am not from here," she said. "Not from this version of the world. The fog is a doorway. It opens once every few years, and when it does, it calls me back."
I laughed then—because love makes fools of us.
"You expect me to believe that?" I said. "That you'll just disappear into mist?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"I hoped you wouldn't see it," she whispered. "I hoped I could pretend to be human a little longer."
The fog pushed the door open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of river water and something older—like rain that had fallen centuries ago.
"I love you," she said quickly. "That part was never a lie."
I grabbed her hand. "Then don't go."
She smiled sadly.
"If I stay, I will fade. And one day, you'll wake up and forget my face. This is the only way I remain real—to you, and to myself."
The fog wrapped around her ankles, glowing faintly, as if lit from within.
"Kiss me," she said.
I did. Her lips were warm for just a second longer, and then they weren't. She stepped back, the fog rising to her waist, her shoulders, her face. Even as she vanished, her eyes never left mine.
And then she was gone.
No sound. No light. Just fog.
The town returned to normal by morning. People walked the streets, drank tea, complained about the weather. No one remembered Mira. No one remembered the girl with the blue scarf who loved forgotten places.
But I did.
Years have passed. The bookshop still stands. The river still carries its secrets. And sometimes, on certain nights, the fog returns—soft and glowing, like a memory that refuses to die.
When it does, I swear I hear her voice in the mist.
"I never left you," it seems to say. "I just learned how to love you from the other side."
And I stand there, waiting—because when someone leaves you in fog, they take part of your heart with them, and you spend the rest of your life hoping the mist will bring it back.