**A Hush Before the Storm**
In a godforsaken village where dusty lanes stretched endlessly between barren fields, the air trembled with heat, taut like a string about to snap. Five days without rain had turned the earth into a parched, cracked wasteland. The pavement breathed like smouldering coal, and the silence was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Everything grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the stench of burnt oil from next door’s cooking, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. Even the fly buzzing against the windowpane sounded like a warning bell, as if sensing a storm no one else could.
Emily woke in the dead of night, certain someone stood beside her. Not a gaze, but a weight—an almost tangible presence, like a shadow lingering in the corner. She lay still, listening to the hush of her small flat. Stifling. She hadn’t opened the windows—night here didn’t bring relief, only the bark of dogs, drunken chatter, and the reek of cheap cigarettes. The air was thick, like the inside of an abandoned shed. Her skin burned as if something unseen were drying her out, something that had gathered in her for years like dust in the corners.
A tap dripped in the kitchen. Emily sat up, listening. *Drip.* Silence. *Drip.* She rose, barefoot, avoiding the creaky floorboards as though afraid to wake something—though she knew she was alone. A shattered mug lay on the tiles, shards sharp as fresh wounds. Nearby, a puddle of water, not drops but a full spill, as if someone had tossed a glass. Round, still, out of place. She froze. She lived alone. Always had. Yet, in that moment, that certainty cracked.
She flicked off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The sheets clung to her skin; the pillow felt like hot stone. Tossing, she chased a breeze that didn’t exist. Something had settled inside her—not a voice, not a shape, but a shadow. As though someone was keeping silent beside her, and that silence was louder than words. It didn’t frighten her, but it wore her down, like a hairline crack slowly creeping across glass.
By morning, she was making soup. She left the pot to cool, wiped down the hob—not because it was dirty, but to keep her hands busy. At the window, she pulled out an old notebook. Dog-eared, lined, its cover stained, its corners bent. Inside: shopping lists, snippets of long-forgotten poetry, recipes, dreams. Even a shaky sketch—a steaming teapot, drawn ten years ago. Today, she turned to a fresh page and wrote: *”No one comes. No one asks. But I’m still here.”*
Then she crossed it out—slowly, as if erasing a part of herself. The ink smudged; the paper felt rough beneath her fingers, resisting.
She sat for a long time. Listened to the hum of the fridge, the slam of the front door. Someone had arrived. Not for her. Never for her. Footsteps on the stairs grew fainter each year. The world was moving on without so much as a backward glance.
Emily walked to the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed. She straightened the blanket over her husband, William. He didn’t stir. His breath was ragged but familiar. She rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. That meant he still felt. Still lived. And she was there beside him. As long as there was *together*, there was still meaning.
She lay down next to him. Not to sleep. Just to be close. To breathe in sync, even for a little while. Even just for this fragile, shared silence.
Days later, she steeled herself to call her daughter. Paced the kitchen, rearranged the dishes, scrubbed the already-clean sink, stared at the phone like it was a live grenade. Dialled with trembling fingers, bracing for coldness, hurry, indifference.
*”Mum? Everything alright?”*
*”Yes. Just wanted to hear your voice.”*
*”Mum, I’m swamped. I’ll ring you back, yeah?”*
*”Of course, love. Of course.”*
Her chest ached, but she kept her voice steady. After hanging up, she sank into a chair, pressed her hands to her face. Then stood and filled the kettle, as if noise could smother the hollowness.
But her daughter called back. Three hours later. No pleasantries.
*”Mum—you okay?”*
And Emily wept. Not from pain. Because someone had asked. Just *asked.* Suddenly, she realised how much she’d needed those words. That simple *”You okay?”*
A week later, a kitten arrived. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, trembling, with oversized ears and wide, wondering eyes.
*”Gran, this is for you. So you’re not lonely. He’s scared, you’re alone—you’ll suit each other.”*
Emily cradled the kitten like fragile china. Warmth bloomed in her chest, as if an old, hardened knot had come loose.
The kitten was ginger, long-limbed, with a comically startled face. The first night, he hid under a chair; by morning, he was curled on her lap, pressed against her leg. They named him Marmalade. Didn’t matter he was a tomcat. Just—Marmalade. Because he was warm, soft, and always there. His purr was loud enough to fill the empty corners, a sound alive and real.
Now, Emily speaks again. First to Marmalade—*”Sleep well? Your bowl’s by the window.”* Then to William—reading the paper, grumbling about his scattered socks. Then to herself—no longer a whisper, but aloud. Checking if her voice still exists. And to those who do come. The neighbour. The postman. The shadow at the window.
She never fixed the phone. Doesn’t need to. Real words don’t drown in noise. They live in pauses, in glances, in touch. And in a small, warm bundle that curls up beside her in the mornings, right when she needs it most.
