Competition Thirty-One Shortlisted: The Abiding Hills by Joanna Miller

“I’m a pluviophile,” she’d said, tracing her finger down the pane, following the raindrops’ paths. “It makes me feel safe.”

As if to satisfy her, all October brooding clouds swathed the hills, incessant rain spluttering the burns and bogs, throwing itself against her bedroom window like fistfuls of pea gravel. That night, though, she was crying too, holding him tighter.

“Please don’t go. I don’t understand. What is it you’re searching for?”

“I need to climb mountains, experience the world, see what I’m missing.” He shook his head, desires tangled, words hollow.

“So, I’m not enough?”

When she reached to pull him down again, he turned away, his decision already made, the urge to travel burrowed deep, the ocean his Pied Piper, tempting him to follow. Selfish, greedy for the unknown, he was on the cusp of great adventures, desperate to board the ferry to freedom, to leave the bay’s claustrophobic hills and same sheltered lives, to leave her, without even a backwards look.

All that next year, journey-bound in strange, hot countries, he guzzled life. Chasing youth’s dreams, keeping the memory of her and those raindrops locked tight away, only allowing them to surface when the nights started to stretch long and lonely, when doubt stealthed the small hours. But it wasn’t until the anniversary of his departure that he finally returned, carried in on the sea fret, holding his breath, watching the enduring hills emerge large as humpback whales. And there she was, standing below them, alone on the quay, constant as a lighthouse, the glow of her guiding him in. Worldly-wise now, a worn piece of driftwood washed up to his safe harbour, he felt the contentment settle on him.

“What brought you home?” she said.

“I missed the hills.” He hesitated, “I missed the person waiting.”

Joanna lives in Derbyshire with her partner, three dogs, and a long-suffering cat. She writes micro, flash and short stories.

Photo courtesy of Joanna Miller

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