Character-based short story

They told me the house was abandoned. And besides, I had to go in if I wanted any chance at joining in their circle. So I did what any new girl would do, I went up to the house.

Halfway up the sidewalk I heard the group snicker, but I only heard a few of the whispers that were passed between the four of them, not friendly words either, “crazy…haunted…loser…ditch…”
I knew this was a joke on me, that these weren’t really my friends after all, but I would prove to them I wasn’t afraid anyway. I would still walk straight up to and go inside that house.

Stepping onto the porch I turned back to give a final glance, but they were already running down the street. As I turned to face the door again I noticed a lithe shadow in the window pull back. Pausing for a moment, I still decided to reach for the door handle just in time to have it pulled away from me.

Looking up, my surprised eyes met a startlingly composed pair of round green eyes, much like two clumps of moss hanging suspended in pearl orbs.
“Uhhh… I was just—“
“I know what you were doing. Why don’t you come inside with me and we will have a little chat.”
Taking one last glimpse over my shoulder for any of my so-called friends, I reluctantly stepped past the lady who now, impatiently tapping her foot, stood to the side holding the door open.

The house had an old, artsy feel to it; it was one of those houses that when you walk in you know it is inhabited by somebody who has really lived life to the fullest. She had pictures hanging on the wall surrounded by frames of delicate filigree, little trinkets from every corner of the world, even the furniture had a foreign luxuriousness air to it. Only then did I stop to actually look at the woman who was leading me, her thick, wavy silver hair was the same color as fine china, her wardrobe made of material that seemed so fine that it couldn’t possibly be from this world. I even marveled at her bare feet treading across the hardwood flooring. The woman herself was, albeit slightly aged, a fine beauty herself. My fear left with my jacket in the coat room, I followed her into the kitchen with a sudden curiosity welling up inside.

Motioning for me to have a seat at the small round table in the corner of the room, she pulled two tall glasses from the cupboard. Setting them down on the table, she continued to walk to the refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade; all the while I noticed that, despite her age, she didn’t tremble, pause, or have a limp in her gait, she seemed as healthy as myself.

After filling both glasses, she finally has a seat in the chair opposite me.
“So what is a girl like you doing trying to bother an old woman like me?”
“Honestly it was all a mistake and I am new and I just wanted to make some friends and I didn’t realize they were that kind of group and I was told it was empty and—”
“Okay, okay, calm down sweetie. Kids sure haven’t changed one bit. Sure the styles and technologies have, but deep down inside they are the same now as they were when I was your age.”
She wasn’t upset over the matter, she just didn’t want another kid to end up in the wrong crowd. That afternoon we finished the pitcher of lemonade while she talked about her travels of the world. She never married she said, but she had lovers in abundance. Nevertheless, she was a dignified lady and maintained a proper reputation. She traveled by train, painting the countryside and selling the canvases every time she went into the city. She never really settled down until her father died, and then only because he had left her this house. Certainly it wasn’t much to look at on the outside, but she preferred it that way, “to shy away unwanted guests,” not referring to me necessarily, though.

Looking out the window I realized the afternoon was over and that it was even nearly dark. Reluctant to leave, I stood up from the table and went to retrieve my coat and said goodbye. Walking down the sidewalk I reached into my pocket to find a note written in fine, elegant cursive. Looking back she gave me a knowing wink, smiled, and then closed the door. Inside the note it read:
“Live while you can to the best of your ability in every moment. Every breath is a gift.”
It was unsigned, but I knew who left it there. That moment, as the streetlight above me came on, I realized today I had come to this house to make a friend, and that is exactly what I did, however unusual a method it was.

The next day I went over to see her again, hoping to have another conversation, maybe about her travels more, or her childhood, anything was possible. I stood knocking on the door, and after nobody came I knocked again. There was still no answer. I went around the side of the house to see if I could see is she was home through the window. As I pushed the tiger lilies away from the window, a neighbor walked up behind me.
“She’s not in there,” he said matter-of-factly. “The ambulance was here last night. Said she slipped on the stairs and took a bump to the head. Always kinda wondered what kinda woman lived in there. ‘Guess now we’ll never know.”
Shocked, I stood like a deer in headlights. This couldn’t be true. I ran home and sat in my bedroom with my back against the bed the whole day. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed her note sitting next to my jacket. I pulled it down and reread it to myself. And I read it again. And again. Her words rang so clearly in my head. I could hear her voice speaking it to me more clearly each time. She had a point. You never know when your breath is going to be your last.