The silence outside the window was unbroken until, for the first time in years, her voice pierced through it. Fragile and distant, it sounded almost foreign, like an echo from a time long past:
“Good morning.”
The words trembled, as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness. They belonged to another life—one where mornings echoed with children’s laughter, pots clattered in the kitchen, and tiny hands would tug at her sleeve, urging her to the window to see the pea shoots stretching toward the sun in an old jam jar.
Eleanor opened her eyes in the dim light. The ceiling above was grey, like the faded sky over the coastal town where she lived. The room was warm, but a chilly draft lazily stirred the edge of the curtain—she had forgotten to close the window again. Or perhaps left it open deliberately, half-expecting a familiar voice, footsteps, or the slam of a door from outside. She lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, searching for answers on how to escape the emptiness. A pang of hunger twisted inside her. With a sigh, she rose and listened—the flat breathed solitude, stubborn and quiet, as if it had claimed her long before she’d ever known it.
The kitchen stood frozen in time. A mug with coffee stains sat on the windowsill, a silent witness to yesterday. On the cutting board lay half a pear, brown and forgotten—Eleanor couldn’t recall when she had begun slicing it, only that she’d paused mid-motion, as if something inside her had snapped. On the fridge, a photograph: a six-year-old boy in a bright pirate costume, grinning as though he might speak any second, his eyes sparkling like sunlight on the sea.
She hadn’t touched the photo in over two years. Her fingers would twitch—then stop, afraid to erase his smile. It was held up by a magnet from the local chemist—a bitter irony. They’d gone there to check his eyesight after he complained letters in his books “danced.” But it didn’t end with a doctor’s visit. Not with a diagnosis. It ended with a road no map could trace, no app could navigate.
By the door, his tiny trainers sat, laces frayed. Dust had settled over them like a fine layer of time. To anyone else, they might have seemed like forgotten clutter, but to her, they were relics. She stepped around them, holding her breath as if a careless glance might shatter the fragile balance of her morning. She’d meant to put them away—but couldn’t. Just a pair of shoes, a scrap of fabric and rubber. And yet, within them—an entire universe. As if someone might walk in and ask, *”Mum, where are my trainers?”* And she had to be ready—not for him, but for herself.
Eleanor made tea. No sugar, no honey—just boiling water and black leaves. The bitterness clung to her tongue, as if it had soaked up her thoughts. Outside, the town carried on, indifferent as the sea after a storm—calm on the surface, chaos still churning beneath. But for her, time had stopped, like an unplugged lamp, only flickering alive with rare bursts of memory.
Once, she had taught literature at the local school. Loved Dickens—not for the tragedy, but for the truth. For finding life in the darkest corners. For the silences that held everything too heavy to say aloud. After the loss, she left. Took a leave, then never returned. First, she couldn’t. Then, she saw no point.
Last summer, a friend dragged her to a support group. Eleanor went three times. She remembered the sterile hall with white walls, the smell of cheap vending machine coffee that drowned out everything—even the faint scent of a stranger’s cologne, even her own thoughts. The woman in the blue jumper who’d lost her daughter, speaking with a forced smile, as if apologizing for her grief. The bloke in the hoodie who sat silent, fidgeting with his rucksack strap like he wanted to vanish inside it. No one wept openly, but the air trembled, thin as a film over flame. Eleanor left—her pain felt *wrong*. As if she didn’t belong among other sorrows. As if she’d lost something only she could see.
She wrote letters. Unsaved, tucked in a folder on her laptop labeled *”Drafts.”* She wrote to him. *”You’d be in Year Two by now… Probably still hating porridge. We’d argue every morning. I’d still tie your laces if you didn’t learn. And you—my little pirate. My laughter in the grass. My ‘Mum, look, a ship!’ My…”* Sometimes, she’d stop mid-sentence. Full stop. Silence. No edits, no endings. Just the hum of the screen and the emptiness behind her.
Today, her voice sounded different. No cracks, no sorrow—just weary, stubborn resolve. As if something within had fractured, and through the break, light had spilled in.
Suddenly, Eleanor wanted to go out. Walk along the quay. No purpose. Just to breathe. Her body, stiff from years of pain, remembered how to move. She threw on her coat, tugged on her boots, then hesitated at the door. The floorboards creaked; the clock ticked like the pulse of the house. Then—she turned back. She took the photo from the fridge. Removed the magnet. Ran her thumb over his face, as if brushing his cheek.
“Come on, pirate. Time to live,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. There was strength in it—or hope, long forgotten.
She stepped out, closing the door softly behind her. And for the first time in years, she shut the window. Not out of fear. Just because now—she could.
