Open Windows
Emily heard her own voice for the first time in months. It came out hoarse, stifled, as if pushing through layers of dust settled on her vocal cords and time itself:
“Good morning.”
It wasn’t an address—just a tentative step. Her voice seemed unsure if it even had the right to exist. It sounded like it belonged to another life—one where the bathroom door slammed in the morning, the kettle whistled in the kitchen, and small bare feet ran to show her the peas sprouting on cotton wool in an old jam jar.
Emily opened her eyes to heavy silence. The ceiling hung above her, dull and greyish, like faded sky—utterly still, lifeless. The flat was warm, but a faint draught brushed the edge of the curtain—she’d left the window open again. Or maybe not forgotten—just left it that way on purpose. Just in case a child’s laughter drifted in. Or footsteps. Or breathing.
She lay on her back without moving, as if staring long enough might reveal a path up there, between the cracks in the plaster. A route to show her how to leave this endless grey room—and, more importantly, how to leave herself.
In the kitchen, everything stayed untouched. A mug with dried-up coffee on the windowsill—as if waiting for yesterday to start again. A browning apple on the cutting board, abandoned like forgotten conversations. And the photo on the fridge: a six-year-old boy in an astronaut costume, grinning wide and bright, as if about to ask, *”Mum, will I really fly?”*
She hadn’t touched the picture in over a year. Her hand would hover, afraid to smudge the memory. The magnet holding it up was from a children’s eye clinic—funny, really. Back then, they’d just gone for “a quick check-up.” Her son had complained about letters running away. But in the end… it wasn’t glasses or a prescription. It ended differently. The kind of ending no one’s prepared for. The kind with no way back.
By the door, tiny trainers with blue Velcro straps—dusty, quiet. Silent witnesses of time. Every day, Emily walked past them with a flinch, as if touching them might make everything collapse. Just a pair of children’s shoes—plastic, fabric, soles. But really? A whole life. A tiny universe compressed into twenty centimetres.
She used to love mornings. Used to brew coffee, put music on. Now—just hot water with green tea, no sugar, no lemon. The bitterness lingered like unspoken words. Outside, the city slowly woke—buses, cigarette smoke, a dog barking, neighbours shouting. Life went on, unaware that someone nearby had stopped long ago.
Emily taught literature. At a college in Manchester. She adored Chekhov—for the restraint, the pain between the lines, the pauses you could hide in. After… she left. First on sick leave. Then into nothing. Never went back. Couldn’t. Then didn’t even want to. Reading became unbearable—words tore at her ribs from the inside.
In spring, a friend dragged her to a support group. The room smelled of cheap machine coffee, grey walls worn thin by time and strangers’ stories. She remembered a woman in a red jumper who’d lost her husband. A boy of about twenty, gripping his backpack all evening, silent. No one screamed. But the air hummed with pain, like a taut wire.
Emily felt out of place. As if her loss was too private. Too invisible. No grave, no date, no goodbye. Like she wasn’t allowed to grieve aloud. So she left. Quietly. Never returned.
Sometimes, she wrote letters. Never sent them. Just saved them. A folder on her laptop labelled *”Drafts.”* She wrote to him.
*”You’d be starting Year Two now. You’d probably hate porridge. We’d argue in the mornings. Or maybe you’d be quiet. You’d know how my hair smells. I’d braid your hair if you were a girl. But you were a boy. My astronaut. My *”Mum, look!”* My hope.”*
Sometimes, she didn’t finish. Just put a full stop. No explanation.
Today, her voice didn’t come from emptiness—but from somewhere deeper. It wasn’t pleading, calling, or aching. It just was. And suddenly, that was enough.
For the first time in ages, Emily wanted to go outside. Just to step out. No reason. Just to feel the pavement under her feet again—ground that had long forgotten her footsteps.
She pulled out her coat. Hadn’t worn it in ages. Slipped on boots. Paused. Listened to the old floorboards creaking under her soles. Inside—an odd trembling. Not fear. Not pain. Something else. Like something was returning.
She walked to the fridge. Took the photo. Carefully peeled off the magnet. Ran her thumb over her son’s face, his wide, living smile.
“Come on, astronaut. I need to learn to live again,” she whispered.
Opened the door. Took a step. Then another.
And for the first time that year—she closed the window.
Not from pain. Not from fear. Just because she understood: now, she could. Maybe… she even had to.
