Every morning at 6:48, Emily pulled open the curtains. Not a minute sooner, not a moment later. Precisely at 6:48, when the first rays of dawn broke over the rooftops of the brick terraces in Manchester, spilling onto the sill of her tiny kitchen, shimmering across the faded linoleum, and grazing the rim of her chipped teacup. That light was like a silent signal—proof that, despite everything, another day had begun.
At first, it was just routine. Then, it became her lifeline. Repeating the same motion at the same time was the only way she kept herself from crumbling. Opening those curtains was her way of whispering to herself, *You’re still here. You’re still holding on.*
After the divorce, her world split in two. Friends vanished, as though afraid to brush against her grief. Her mother called less, stumbling over awkward silences. Work piled up—Emily took every shift, every project, anything to drown out the echo of her own thoughts. But the quiet always caught up. It pressed in, hollow and ringing, like an empty flat after guests had gone. And in that deafening emptiness, only one thing remained constant—the window facing east.
Beyond the glass, a man lived. Every morning, without fail, he stepped onto the balcony opposite. A mug in hand—tea or coffee, she could never tell. Always in a black t-shirt, barefoot, even on frostbitten mornings. Sometimes he’d light a cigarette, pausing between drags, as if searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t name. Other times, he simply stared into the distance—not at the row houses or the grumbling lorries, but beyond, where the world stretched endless. Her balcony sat slightly higher, across the road. He never saw her. But she saw him. And it became her private ritual, her anchor, proof that the day had truly begun.
They never met. Never spoke. But he steadied her. At 6:48, she opened the curtains; he stepped outside—and for that moment, the world didn’t collapse. Someone else was keeping time, breathing the same air, watching the same sky. He was part of her morning now, invisible but vital, like the pulse in her wrists.
After a month, she began setting the table differently. An extra mug, though she drank alone. An extra slice of toast, as if another might sit across from her. At first, it was unconscious. Then deliberate. As if she could summon him—through walls, through distance, through silence. As if this small gesture could warm the morning just a little.
One morning, he didn’t appear.
6:48. The balcony empty. 6:50. 6:55. She stood with her palm against the cold glass, as though she could reach across the gap between their buildings. The flat was so quiet she could hear steam hissing from the cooled kettle. Something inside her snapped—like an unseen mechanism had stopped, the one that kept her days from unravelling. Like the sun had risen but left her in shadow.
She waited for him three mornings in a row. Wearing the same faded dressing gown, clutching the same lukewarm mug. Each time she drew the curtains, her heart clenched—hope and fear tangled together. And each time: nothing. Just empty air, the wind shuffling through the vacant space.
He returned after a week. Same black t-shirt, stubble a shade thicker. Stepped out with his mug, just like before. Smiled—not at her, but at the sky. Yet Emily felt something stir inside her, as if the world, frozen for a heartbeat, had exhaled. It wasn’t an end. Just a pause. And it wasn’t too late.
A month later, she gathered her courage. Bought a plain postcard, white, unadorned. Wrote three words:
*6:48. Thank you.*
No signature. Just those words, penned neatly in black ink. She slipped it into the letterbox of his building, resisting the urge to look back. She didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t ask for miracles. Just let go of all she’d carried, poured into paper, into silence.
The answer came the next morning. At 6:48. He stood on the balcony holding two mugs. Lifted one slightly, like a toast. Like he was saying, *I understand.* Like threading an unseen connection across the morning light.
They never spoke. Never wrote. But every dawn, in two windows, two people stood. On opposite sides of the street. In separate worlds, yet bound by the same fragile moment. As if between them stretched a thread, thin and weightless, held in place by nothing more than a glance, the precision of that hour.
And sometimes, that’s enough. To be seen. To be waited for. Even in silence. Even if it lasts forever.
