The Fox at Moonrise

Elena stood at the edge of the pool at 3 AM, the water black and uninviting. Thirty-nine years old and suddenly alone, she'd taken to midnight swimming the way some women took to wine or yoga. It was the only thing that quieted the noise in her head—the noise that had started three weeks ago when Marcus left, taking his half of the furniture and all of her certainty about the future.

She slipped into the water, the cold shocking her system like some violent electric vitamin she hadn't asked for. This was better than sleeping. Sleeping meant dreams, and dreams meant waking up to the terrible silence of their queen bed.

A rustle in the gardens made her freeze. There, beneath the moonlight, stood a fox—impossibly orange against the manicured landscape, watching her with eyes that seemed to know everything. It looked nothing like the foxes she'd seen in London's suburbs. This one was wild, electric, utterly unbothered by the ridiculous woman in the pool.

"You're supposed to be in the countryside," she whispered, treading water. The fox tilted its head, then turned and vanished into the shadows of a palm tree Marcus had insisted on planting last year, against all advice about the climate.

Elena swam to the edge and pulled herself out, wrapping in a towel. Her palm pressed against the cold glass of the patio door, and she caught her own reflection—hollowed out, strange. Tomorrow she would call her mother. Tomorrow she would cancel the subscription to the vitamin company Marcus had signed them up for, the one that sent monthly reminders of their shared life in neatly labeled packets.

But not tonight. Tonight she would make tea and wait for the fox to return, feeling strangely hopeful about the wild things that survived in unlikely places.