The Calm Before the Storm
In a God-forsaken village, where dusty lanes stretched alongside endless fields, the air quivered with heat like a bowstring about to snap. Five days without rain had turned the land into a dry, cracked wasteland. The pavement breathed heat like glowing coals, and the silence hung so thick it could be cut with a knife. Everything grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the smell of burnt oil drifting from a neighbour’s kitchen, the clatter of a spoon dropped on the floor. Even a fly buzzing against the windowpane sounded like a warning bell, as if sensing the storm long before the people did.
Eleanor woke in the dead of night with the weight of someone standing beside her. Not a gaze, but something solid, almost tangible, like a shadow lurking in the corner. She lay perfectly still, listening to the hush of her tiny flat. The air was stifling, thick as an abandoned shed. She hadn’t opened the windows—night in this village brought no relief, only the bark of dogs, drunken chatter, and the stench of cheap cigarettes. Her body burned from within, as though something unseen had been drying her out for years, like dust gathering in the corners.
A tap dripped in the kitchen. Eleanor sat up, ears straining. *Drip.* Silence. Then another *drip.* She rose, stepping carefully on bare feet to avoid the creaking floorboards, as if afraid to wake someone—though she knew she was alone. A broken cup lay on the floor, shards sharp as fresh wounds. Beside it, a pool of water—not just drops, but enough to fill a glass. Round, undisturbed, alien. Eleanor froze. She’d always lived alone. But for the first time, doubt crept in.
She switched off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The sheets clung to her skin, the pillow scorching under her head. She tossed and turned, chasing a breeze that didn’t exist. Something had settled inside her—not a voice, not a figure, but a shadow. The silence around it was louder than any words. It didn’t frighten her, but it wore her down, like a crack slowly spreading across glass.
In the morning, she made soup. Set the pot aside to cool, wiped the stove—not because it was dirty, but to keep her hands busy. At the window, she pulled out an old notebook, its cover stained, corners frayed. Inside were shopping lists, scraps of youthful poetry, recipes, dreams. A shaky sketch of a steaming kettle, drawn a decade ago. Today, she opened to a fresh page and wrote, *”No one comes. No one asks. But I’m still here.”*
Then she crossed it out, slow, deliberate, as if erasing some part of herself. The ink smudged, the paper rough under her fingers.
She sat for a long time. Listened 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 with each passing year. The world moved on without looking back.
Eleanor went to the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed. She adjusted the blanket over Henry, her husband. He didn’t wake. His breath was labored, uneven—but familiar. She rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. That meant he still felt. Meant he was still alive. And if they still had this—this *together*—then there was still meaning.
She lay beside him. Not to sleep, but to be close. To breathe in sync, even for a little while. Even if only for this fragile, shared silence.
Days later, she worked up the courage to call her daughter. Paced the kitchen, rearranged dishes, scrubbed the already-clean sink. The phone might as well have been a grenade. She dialed with trembling fingers, bracing for disinterest, haste, coldness.
*”Mum? What’s wrong?”*
*”Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.”*
*”Mum, I’m swamped. I’ll call back, alright?”*
*”Of course, love.”*
Her chest ached, but she kept her voice steady. After hanging up, she sat, hands pressed to her face, then stood and flicked the kettle on—as if boiling water could fill the emptiness.
But her daughter called back. Three hours later. No preamble.
*”Mum, how are you?”*
And Eleanor wept. Not from pain. Because someone had asked. That simple *How are you?* suddenly laid bare how much she’d needed those words.
A week later, a kitten appeared in the house. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, trembling, with ears too big 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 it carefully, as if holding a delicate vase. And then, warmth unfurled in her chest—like loosening an old, knotted rope.
The kitten was ginger, all long legs and a comical face, as though perpetually surprised. The first night, he hid under a chair. By morning, he was curled at her feet on the old quilt. They named him Marmalade. Never mind that he wasn’t sweet—it fit. Warm, bright, always there. He purred so loudly it seemed he wanted to drown out all the silence, filling the house with something alive.
Now, Eleanor spoke again in the mornings. First to Marmalade—*Did you sleep? Your bowl’s by the window.* Then to Henry—reading the news, chiding him for leaving things scattered. Then to herself—not whispering, but aloud, as if checking she still had a voice. And finally, to those who did come. The neighbour. The postman. Even the shadow at the window.
She never fixed the telephone. Didn’t need to. Real words don’t get lost in the rush. They live in pauses, in glances, in touch. And in a small, warm bundle that curls up beside you in the morning—just when you need it most.
