The rain hammered against the windowpane, a relentless drumbeat against the silence of the room. Eliza clutched the cold porcelain mug, her knuckles white. She hadn't moved in an hour. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the old sash window as if demanding to be let in. She was waiting for the sound of headlights, a crunch on the gravel drive. But there was nothing save the storm.
At first, she had paced the length of the kitchen, her shadow stretching and shrinking under the single swaying bulb. She had rearranged the books on the shelf, twice. She had even, in a moment of desperation, started to polish the silver. But the restless energy had faded, replaced by this cold, heavy stillness. The clock on the wall ticked, each sound a small explosion in the quiet. The house felt like it was holding its breath. And she was holding hers with it.
The jungle was a wall of green, impenetrable and hostile. For weeks, we had hacked our way through this suffocating labyrinth, our spirits as damp as the clothes upon our backs. The air, thick with the smell of decay and the incessant drone of insects, offered no relief. It was a place that seemed actively to despise human presence, a verdant prison that tested the very limits of our endurance. Every step was a battle against sucking mud and tangled vines that tore at our skin like claws.
The endless grey ribbon of the motorway stretched ahead, a monument to boredom. I'd been driving for six hours, fuelled by stale coffee and the monotonous thud of the radio. Every service station was a grim copy of the last: same plastic-wrapped sandwiches, same weary faces. This wasn't an adventure; it was an endurance test. The sat-nav, in its infuriatingly calm voice, announced '200 miles to your destination.' I gripped the wheel, my shoulders aching, and just focused on the white lines.