The Calm Before the Storm
In a godforsaken village where dusty roads stretched endlessly alongside barren fields, the air quivered with heat, taut as a bowstring about to snap. Five days without rain had turned everything into a dry, cracked wasteland. The asphalt breathed like scorching coal, and the silence hung so thick you could slice it with a knife. Everything grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the burnt-oil stench from the neighbour’s kitchen, the clatter of a dropped spoon. Even a fly buzzing against the window pane rang out like a warning bell, as if sensing a storm mere people couldn’t yet fathom.
Eleanor woke in the dead of night, certain someone stood beside her. Not a gaze, but a heavy, almost tangible presence, like a shadow lurking in the corner. She lay motionless, straining to hear through the stifling quiet of her tiny flat. Stifling. She hadn’t opened the windows—nights here didn’t bring cool air, only barking dogs, drunken chatter, and the stale reek of cheap cigarettes. The air hung thick, like in a forgotten shed. Her body burned as though parched not by the heat, but by something invisible, something that had gathered like dust in the corners for years.
A tap dripped in the kitchen. Eleanor sat up, listening. Drip. Silence. Drip again. She slipped out of bed, bare feet avoiding the creaking floorboards as though afraid to wake someone—though she knew she was alone. A shattered cup lay on the floor. Shards, sharp as fresh wounds. Beside it, a puddle—not drops, but a whole spill, as if someone had tipped a glass. Round, still, foreign. Eleanor froze. She lived alone. Always had. But in that moment, her certainty cracked.
She flicked off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The blanket clung to her skin; the pillow felt like a scalding stone. She tossed, chasing a breeze that wasn’t there. Something had taken root inside her—not a voice, not a figure, but a shadow. As though someone stood silent beside her, their quiet louder than any words. It didn’t frighten her. It wore her down, like a hairline crack creeping across glass.
By morning, she was making soup. She set the pot aside to cool, wiped down the stove—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, scraps of youthful poetry, notes, recipes, dreams. There was even a shaky sketch of a steaming kettle, drawn a decade ago. Today, she turned to a blank page and wrote: *”No one comes. No one asks. But I’m still here.”*
Then she crossed it out. Slowly, as if erasing a piece of herself. The ink smudged; the paper felt rough under her fingers, resisting.
She sat for a long time. Listening to the hum of the fridge, the slam of the front door. Someone had come. Not for her. Again. Footsteps on the stairs grew fainter each year. The world was leaving without looking back.
Eleanor walked to the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, and straightened the blanket over her husband’s—Henry’s—sleeping form. He didn’t stir. His breath came laboured, uneven, but familiar. She rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. That meant he still felt. Still lived. And so she stayed close. As long as they had this—this fragile *together*—there was still meaning.
She lay down beside him. Not to sleep. Just to be near. To breathe in sync, if only for tonight. If only in this fleeting quiet for two.
Days later, she worked up the nerve to call her daughter. Paced the kitchen, rearranged dishes, wiped an already-clean sink, stared at the phone like it might explode. Dialled with trembling fingers, bracing for indifference, impatience, ice.
*”Mum? What’s wrong?”*
*”Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.”*
*”Mum, I’m swamped. I’ll call back, alright?”*
*”Of course, love. Of course.”*
Her heart clenched, but her voice held steady. After hanging up, she sank into a chair, pressed her palms to her face, then stood and put the kettle on, as if steam could drown the hollowness.
But the daughter did call back. Three hours later. No pleasantries.
*”Mum, how are you?”*
And Eleanor wept. Not from pain. Because someone had asked. Just asked. And suddenly, she realised how desperately she’d needed those words. A simple *”How are you?”*
A week later, a kitten arrived. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, trembling, with oversize ears and eyes full of wonder.
*”Gran, this is for you. So you’re not lonely. He’s scared; you’re alone. You’ll suit each other.”*
Eleanor cradled the kitten like fragile china. And then—warmth unfurled in her chest, as if an old, tangled knot had finally loosened.
The kitten was ginger, long-limbed, with a perpetually surprised face. The first night, he hid under a chair. By morning, he was curled on her lap, nestled against her feet. They named him Marmalade. Didn’t matter that he was a tom. Just—Marmalade. Warm, soft, always there. His purr rumbled loud enough to fill the whole house’s silence, and in that sound was something alive, something real.
Now, mornings find Eleanor speaking again. First to Marmalade—*”Sleep well?”* *”Your bowl’s by the window.”* Then to Henry—reading headlines, chiding him for scattered socks. Then to herself—no longer whispering, but aloud. As if testing: *Do I still have a voice?* And then—to those who do come. Who do ask. The neighbour. The postman. The shadow at the window.
She never fixed the phone. Didn’t need to. Real words don’t drown in noise. They live in pauses, in glances, in touch. And in a small, warm bundle who curls up beside you at dawn, exactly when you need it most.
