Fog

Seven days now the fog had lasted. Hanging like a gauzy mosquito net, trapping sounds and smells in. Keeping the world out.
The first day or two, she hadn’t minded. Enjoyed feeling the warmth of the turf fire wrap itself around her legs as she watched through the window a misted world. She imagined she was living in a cloud and if she could only see past the watery air, she might find the world spread out below her, glimpse an angel flying past.     
She was surprised, the third morning, to find it hadn’t cleared. It still clung to the trees, defining the limits of this new world. She ventured out to meet it, not too close, stood and listened to dogs barking, cars in the distance. The sounds bounced off the soft ceiling of moisture, came back and surrounded her. She could smell the smoke from her fire, mingled with the scent of the hawthorns and something else, maybe the fog itself.
On day four she listened to the weather on the local radio station. Clear skies they said. A crisp autumn morning. The fog still crouched around the edges of her garden.
She tried to outrun it on the fifth day. Ran at it, hoping to break through to the other side where a crisp autumn day was waiting, but it moved with her, stayed a few feet ahead, taunting her.
She kept the curtains shut on the sixth day.
Seven days now it had lasted.