I have no idea where this came from. Just a drabble. Reviews welcome.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.

He doesn't look at me the way he used to. Sometimes, he doesn't even seem to realise that I'm there. I'm just a shadow, a ghost, something that can only be seen by someone who has set out to find me. I often wonder if this is what life will be like from now: perhaps I have just become an empty shell, or perhaps, even, I don't exist at all. Did I ever exist in the first place?

The distance between us has been growing, steadily, ever since the war began. He became stressed, and I tried my utmost to help him, but it wasn't enough. He didn't even notice the things that I did for him. And then he got ill, and I cared for him, but even then, the distance between us was great; it was like someone had severed our union with one of Mrs Patmore's carving knives. He became cold, stern and distant. It was no wonder that I did not turn to him when my own life was thrown onto the fire.

He tricked me. Mrs Patmore had mentioned to him that something was wrong, and he tricked me into telling me what was going on. The look on his face when I finally revealed to him about my illness broke the pieces of my heart that he had not already managed to rip to shreds. And then I saw it; Charles Carson, the stern, emotionless and sometimes bordering on rude, butler, was crying.

I had never seen him cry before, and since then, I have not seen him shed a tear. I often sit and wonder if it had just been a trick of the light, for as soon as I had spotted the glistening drop of water on his cheek, it had gone.

He barely spoke for quite some time following my admission. He merely sat, his fingers laced together, lost in thought. His expression was troubled, and I began to feel guilty for causing him such an inconvenience when he already had so much to deal with in his position within the household. Then he reached out and touched my hand, and for that moment, I truly believed that everything was going to be alright.

He stood up and left, silently, and I watched him go, knowing full well that neither of us would mention this moment again. And that is when his attitude towards me began to change. Granted, he no longer belittled me when I could not complete my duties to the standard that he had become accustomed to, but there was no denying that he had become more distant than ever.

I often sit in my sitting room and watch him pacing in his pantry, that same troubled expression on his face. But he does not notice that I watch him; to him, I don't exist. To him, I am not a person, merely a shadow. The temptation to tell him that I still exist and that this illness hasn't beaten me yet grows, but I know that even if I did attempt to tell him that, my words would fall upon deaf ears. He would not hear me, just as he does not see me.

To him, I am not Elsie Hughes, housekeeper. To him, I am Elsie Hughes, the shadow.