Emily stumbled upon him by chance—in the underpass by the train station in Manchester, where the air was thick with dampness, the scent of cheap coffee, busker tunes, and hurried footsteps. He stood leaning against the peeling wall, guitar in hand, singing. Not loudly, not for the crowd—but in a way that cut straight to the heart. Like someone who no longer feared being heard or forgotten. Singing just for himself, yet his voice, like a thread, tangled in the noise of the crowd, found her, burrowed into memory. And she recognized him instantly.
A voice from the past.
A voice that once made her heart race, nights stretch endlessly, and hopes burn like candles she lit alone. A voice she’d spent years trying to silence, but it still lived inside her, tucked in a corner of memory where everything sounds too sharp, too raw.
Matthew.
He wore the same jacket—black, worn thin by time, like an old companion to his wanderings. His hair was longer, stubble thicker, but his eyes held that same fleeting spark, as if he were always in motion, halfway to something he couldn’t explain. She froze. Dug into her purse. Fished out loose change. Dropped it into the open guitar case, and the coins clinked like an echo of their past.
He didn’t look up at first. When he did, he didn’t seem surprised. Just nodded, as if they’d seen each other yesterday, as if time hadn’t torn their lives apart.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You haven’t changed.”
She gave a bitter little smile.
“And you—you’re different.”
“Life,” he shrugged, and that one gesture carried his whole story. “Some people keep their faces. Others just get songs.”
“And what did you get?”
“The road. And a dozen songs no one wants.”
He smiled, but his eyes lacked the defiance that once swept her off her feet. The song he finished was all train whistles, goodbyes, and the impossibility of coming back.
“You still singing?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Only singing now,” he said, his voice lighter than she remembered. “It’s honest. No one asks why. No one expects me to be anything else.”
“And that’s enough?”
“For now, yeah. Used to chase something bigger. Now I just live.”
They fell quiet. The crowd streamed past, the city hummed, oblivious to the thread that once tied them together—thin, fragile. She’d waited for him under streetlamps, written letters he never read, called into the void. He’d vanished without a word, like she’d never existed.
“Couldn’t do it any other way,” he said suddenly, gaze drifting. “Not sorry. Just… I was empty. Broken.”
“And now?”
He looked at his hands, at the guitar strings. Fingers brushed them, and they rang softly, like a distant echo.
“Now I sing. And I don’t run. That’s something, right?”
She nodded. Slowly, carefully. Something inside her shifted—not pain, not anger, but something tender, almost weightless. Like an old melody playing again, but no longer pulling her back, no longer making her cry. Her chest felt light, no longer carrying that heaviness of years.
“I should go,” she said. “People are waiting.”
He didn’t stop her. Just asked, almost a whisper:
“Maybe tea? No strings. Like before. No past. No promises.”
She looked at him. At the underpass, the guitar, the eyes still restless with wanderlust. He’d always been like this—moving, just out of reach, even when he was close.
“Not today, Matthew,” she said. “Thanks. I don’t do ‘just tea’ anymore. It always turns into more.”
And she walked away. Step by step, firmer. Not looking back. As if with each stride, she wasn’t leaving him behind, but the version of herself that waited, hoped, believed.
Ahead—meetings, work, a quiet evening with a book. A life that didn’t pause, didn’t look back.
Sometimes people return. Not to stay. Just to remind you you’ve already moved on. And that it was right.
She walked away. And finally felt free.
