Part 1 – In The Bleak Midwinter

Chapter 1

Rain lashed against the old windows, each drop hammering against the glass with a ferocity that reverberated through the quiet office. The dim light of a laptop cast a faint glow across Isabelle’s desk, illuminating a cluttered landscape of crumpled papers, empty coffee cups, and discarded Chinese takeout containers. The faint aroma of spices lingered in the air, a fleeting reminder of meals hastily consumed during long nights of work.

Despite management’s promises of “No More Crunch Times” and “Balanced Workloads,” crunch time had returned with a vengeance. Three major accounts were up for renewal within the same two-week window—a scheduling oversight that landed squarely on Isabelle’s already burdened shoulders. The departure of her coworker, forced to relocate for a family emergency, left her alone to shoulder the weight.

Eyes glazed, Isabelle worked on autopilot, her fingers gliding across the keyboard as streams of numbers and data cascaded down the screen. The monotony was mind-numbing, but there was no alternative. Quitting wasn’t an option. With no savings, no family safety net, and the crushing cost of living, she was trapped in survival mode. Sink or swim, they said, but this felt more like treading water.

It was her fourth late night in a row, and the empty office felt suffocating. As she finished another spreadsheet, she leaned back in her chair, letting the tension in her shoulders ebb slightly. “This has to be close to the last,” she muttered to herself, her voice swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights. But as her cursor clicked over to check the remaining files, five new updates appeared. The weight of several more hours of work sank heavily in her chest.

A glance at the old clock on the exposed brick wall across the room revealed the time: 11:11. Its red digits glowed like a sinister promise. Isabelle smiled weakly. “Make a wish,” she whispered. Superstitions like these were second nature to her, remnants of a childhood steeped in old wives’ tales and folklore. Double digits on the clock meant a wish. A saucer of cream left out at dusk could ward off colds. They were small rituals she clung to in a world that felt increasingly indifferent.

The debate began in her mind: leave now, get some sleep, and start early, or push through for a few more hours while still in the “work zone.” Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she decided to power through. “But first, coffee.”

The scrape of her chair against the hardwood floor echoed as she stood, making her way to the office kitchenette. Passing the tall windows, she watched raindrops racing down the glass, forming patterns she unconsciously connected in her mind. Even in exhaustion, her knack for spotting patterns persisted.

The rich aroma of brewing coffee filled the office, a small comfort against the grim monotony. Leaning against the counter, Isabelle let her mind wander: her studio apartment, cluttered from neglect this week; the coming weekend, likely damp and uneventful; the way rain seemed to turn everyone into hermits. With coffee in hand, she started back to her desk, her thoughts still drifting.

Then, the crash came.

Glass shuddered violently as something struck the window just inches from her face. Isabelle screamed, the hot coffee slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor. Her wide eyes scanned the rain-streaked glass, but the deluge obscured everything. She stood frozen, her pulse pounding in her ears, until a faint movement caught her attention.

On the stone windowsill lay a bird, its small body heaving with labored breaths. Its vibrant blue feathers, streaked with dark markings, stood out even in the dim light. Concern replaced fear as she opened the nearest window, shivering at the rush of cold, wet air. Carefully, she brought the bird inside. Even if it’s beyond saving, she thought, nothing should die alone and cold in the rain.

Back at her desk, Isabelle made a makeshift nest in an open drawer, lining it with tissues and old reports. The bird lay still but seemed physically unharmed apart from a chipped beak. As she returned to her work, she began to hum a soft tune, an old melody she half-remembered from her childhood. Her grandmother had sung it to her when she was sick, and now it seemed fitting for the little creature.

Hours passed in a haze of numbers and deadlines. Isabelle’s talent for spotting patterns made her an efficient worker, but it also trapped her in her job. To her, the world was a tapestry of hidden structures: numbers aligning in spreadsheets, rhythms in coworker habits, even the way birds perched on wires. This skill brought her success, but it also isolated her, tying her identity to the work she both excelled at and resented.

Sometime after 2 a.m., exhaustion overtook her. The next thing Isabelle knew, the faint light of dawn crept through the rain-streaked windows. The storm must have subsided sometime in the early morning. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the clock: 6:15 a.m..

“Fuck,” she groaned, taking in the finished spreadsheets on her screen. She must have completed them before dozing off. Relief turned to panic as she remembered the bird.

Her desk drawer was empty. For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream. Then she heard the faint tapping.

Turning, Isabelle saw the bird perched on the windowsill, its feathers neatly groomed and its small body upright. It stared at her, its chipped beak tapping gently on the glass.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” she murmured, opening the window. The bird tilted its head, and for a fleeting moment, she felt an inexplicable connection, as if saying farewell to an old friend. With a flutter of wings, the bird vanished into the morning light.

As Isabelle walked back to her desk, her foot caught on something behind her chair. She glanced down to find a tartan blanket crumpled on the floor, one that must have been draped around her shoulders at some point. Frowning, she bent to pick it up. “Where did this come from?” she murmured, turning the fabric over in her hands.

___________

The day passed in a foggy haze, that surreal detachment from reality brought on by just the right amount of sleep deprivation. With the major reports completed and submitted, Isabelle spent her day wading through emails and half-listening to meetings that could have been summarized in a footnote. Yet her mind kept drifting back to the bird and the mysterious tartan blanket now neatly folded beneath her desk. Was it hers? Had she brought it in and simply forgotten? The unanswered question gnawed at her, distracting her from even the most mundane tasks.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, Isabelle was utterly drained, ready to collapse. Gathering her things, she offered polite goodbyes to her coworkers and headed for the door. It wasn’t until twenty minutes into her commute that she realized, along with her bag, she was also carrying the blanket, bundled awkwardly under her arm. She had no memory of picking it up. Shaking her head, she muttered to herself, “You’re losing it.”

The Underground greeted her as it always did: dark, damp, and laced with the faint tang of diesel. For most, it was unpleasant, but to Isabelle, it carried the promise of mystery and travel—an anchor to the city’s pulsing life. The air carried a constant warmth, not of comfort but of humanity, tucked just beneath the hurried rhythm of the world above.

The escalator descended into the depths of the station, gliding past bright billboards advertising the latest West End productions. Around her, a sea of commuters ebbed and flowed, strangers brushing past each other in a kind of organized chaos. It always struck Isabelle as strange—so many people packed so close together, yet each moving alone, like silent ships passing in the night.

The train arrived with a rush of air and the metallic hum of brakes. Isabelle managed to snag a seat, a rare comfort during rush hour. By the time the train reached the next stop, her head had already slumped forward, and sleep pulled her gently under.

____________

The first sensation that registered was cold—a sharp, biting chill that sent a shiver coursing through Isabelle’s body as her eyes fluttered open. Across from her sat something—or someone—that did not belong in the drab surroundings of a rush-hour train. Its form resembled an ancient sculpture, carved from alabaster, otherworldly and still.

“Awake, are we?” the figure said, its voice soft and deep, almost melodic. Before Isabelle could respond, it continued, “I see, not quite yet. He told me to expect you, though I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

Isabelle blinked, trying to focus on its face, but the harder she looked, the more its features blurred and shifted, making her head ache. “Oh, honey, no,” it said with a chuckle, as though amused by her efforts. “Don’t force it. You’ll see when you’re ready.”

The figure stood and offered a hand. Hesitantly, Isabelle reached out, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Where… am I?” she asked, her voice shaking, the tube carriage seeming to melt away around them..

“Nowhere in particular. Just out for a stroll in the garden,” it replied casually as they began to walk.

Isabelle glanced around, still acutely aware of the chill clinging to her skin. The world was frozen and glimmering, as if caught in an eternal frost. Ice coated everything—the trees lining the path stood like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with crystalized frost, and even the pale blades of grass sparkled with frozen dew. The wind whispered through the landscape, its sound like distant chimes in a hollow cathedral.

“Why is it so cold?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Well, it’s Winter, dear, and things do tend to get a bit chilly in Winter. Although,” the figure added with a note of wry humor, “this one has gone on quite a while, I must admit.” Their footsteps echoed in the eerie silence, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the place.

“But it’s not Winter—it’s May,” Isabelle protested, her breath visible in the icy air.

The figure chuckled softly. “That it is. Perhaps someone should inform them of that, don’t you think?”

The absurdity of the conversation, paired with the surreal landscape, began to overwhelm her, leaving her dazed and unsteady.

“The good thing about the cold, though,” the figure said, as if sharing a secret, “is that a good blanket can take the edge right off it.”

Before Isabelle could respond, it added, “Now, best be getting back. Wouldn’t want to miss your stop.”

She turned to look at the figure, her confusion mounting. “My what?”

________

The jolt of the train carriage shook Isabelle awake, the blur of reality snapping back into focus. It took a moment to register—this was her stop. “Oh!” she gasped, clutching her bag as she jumped to her feet, rushing out the door just as it slid open. By the time she emerged onto the platform and climbed to street level, the dream had already begun to slip from her memory, fading like smoke in the cool night air.

Stepping through the stone arches and onto the street, she was greeted by the strange half-light that only cities seem to conjure—an artificial twilight born of countless streetlights burning against the deep orange haze of the sky. The glow was suffocating, blocking out all but the brightest stars.

She pulled her coat tighter as she walked, the warmth of the day already a distant memory. A sharp wind wound its way through the crooked streets, cutting through her like icy needles. Without even realizing it, Isabelle found the blanket draped around her shoulders, as though it had always been there. Its warmth was unlike anything she’d felt in a long time—an enveloping, almost tender heat that reminded her of being wrapped up with someone on a freezing night. She sighed, clutching the fabric closer as she turned onto her street.

Home was a flat in a modest three-story townhouse in Camden, one of many that had been converted into flats over the years. Nestled between an old bookstore and a pub on the corner, it sat off the main road, its narrow facade bearing the charm of a bygone era. It wasn’t much, but Isabelle could just about afford to keep it running, and truth be told, she wouldn’t have traded it for anywhere else.

The Black Hart pub, perched at the corner, was already bustling as she passed. Its painted sign—a dark stag with red eyes and gnarled antlers standing watchfully atop a green hill—swayed slightly in the night breeze. The sign always gave her a strange unease; the stag’s eyes seemed to follow her no matter where she stood, their gaze unnervingly lifelike.

The quiet of the backstreets wrapped around her like a soothing lullaby. A handful of warm lights glowed in the windows of neighboring homes, lending the street a peaceful, almost magical quality. It felt as though the city itself was taking a moment to rest, reassuring her that everything would be fine after a little sleep.

Shadows stretched and scattered as she passed under the streetlights, her footsteps muted against the pavement. Reaching her front door, she turned the key and pushed it open with a satisfying click. A small pile of leaflets—mostly ads for the new pizza place, Giovanni’s—sat waiting in the mail tray. Flyers seemed to be all she ever got these days; no one sent letters anymore unless it was a bill or a sales pitch.

Still, her imagination wandered. For a fleeting moment, she pictured a neatly folded letter sealed with wax, waiting patiently for her attention. A missive from some long-lost friend or a mysterious gentleman caller.

She laughed at herself, shaking her head. “You really need to stop watching period dramas,” she muttered as she climbed the stairs to her flat.

The door to 3A swung open, and Mr. Darcy was already waiting on the sofa. His gaze, intense and expectant, was fixed on her. For all his aloofness, she was his whole world, and she knew it.

He wasted no time, leaping to his feet and bounding across the room to twine himself around her legs. “I know, I know,” Isabelle said with a guilty smile, bending to scoop up the mewling calico from the floor. “I’m a terrible person, leaving you with nothing but the robo-feeder for company last night.” She cradled him in her arms.

“I had to work late, I’m sorry,” she murmured softly, stroking his fur. It seemed to appease Mr. Darcy, who responded with an affectionate nuzzle, his purring a gentle reminder of his unconditional forgiveness.