Under a Chilly Sky
Thomas was sorting through old items to list on eBay. Not out of necessity—just tired of seeing them every day. These things held memories. Of people who’d slipped from his life. Of times that had melted away like snowflakes in his palm. Of the man he once was, now lost to the past. A worn jumper with a high collar, untouched for years. A coat with a frayed elbow. A frying pan, a birthday gift still unused. They crowded his cupboards, his corners, the very air in his flat.
He photographed them by the window—the light softer there than outside. Hung them neatly on hangers, smoothed out creases, even fetched the iron once or twice. As if his effort decided whether they’d find a new home or end up in the bin. He hoped someone, scrolling through listings, might pause and think: *That’s mine. I need that.*
One evening, a message came. Short, to the point: *“Still have the jumper?”* Late, nearly eleven. As if the sender had hesitated for hours, as if this were his last chance.
Thomas replied: *“Yes, still here.”* The man asked for his address and added, *“Be there soon.”* No haggling, no small talk—just a blunt *“Wait for me.”*
Thomas barely had time to clear the supper dishes. When the buzzer rang, his hands still smelled of onions. He wiped them on a tea towel, smoothed his hair, threw on a light cardigan, and opened the door.
A man in his fifties stood there, wearing a faded jacket and a weary gaze. His eyes didn’t meet Thomas’s but seemed fixed on something invisible—a word, a warmth, something long gone.
“Evening. Here for the jumper. The dark green one, with the pattern.”
“Come in, I’ll fetch it. It’s in the other room,” Thomas said, stepping aside.
The man lingered at the threshold, as if wary of crossing an unseen line.
“Cosy place you’ve got. Warm. My flat’s freezing—radiators barely work. Keeps meaning to fix them, never find the time.”
“Aye, heating’s a nightmare,” Thomas replied, heading to the bedroom. “Bought a space heater last winter, or I’d have turned to ice.”
He returned with two jumpers—the green one and another, navy blue.
“Here, have a look. This one’s warm too, hardly worn. Doesn’t itch.”
The man tried them on over his coat. Silent, studying himself in the mirror. Then, quietly, almost whispering:
“My wife used to pick these. Never got the knack myself. Without her… nothing feels right. Like it’s all borrowed.”
Thomas nodded, asking nothing. Just adjusted the blue jumper’s collar.
“Which one’ll you take?”
“Both, if that’s alright. One for me. The other for a mate—lost his house in a fire. Whole family couch-surfing now. Kids haven’t even got proper coats. We’re all chipping in where we can.”
Thomas almost said, *“Take them for free,”* but the man was already pulling out crumpled notes, as if anticipating the offer and keen to refuse it.
“How much?”
Thomas quoted less than the listed price. The man handed over the money, eyes down. His hands were rough, cracked—a labourer’s hands, used to wind and cold.
“Ta, mate.”
“Hope they keep you warm,” Thomas murmured.
The man nodded but didn’t move. Stared at the floor, then suddenly looked up.
“Sounds daft, maybe. But your place… it’s peaceful. Smells like home. Like there’s still somewhere to come back to.”
Thomas stilled. Then, surprising himself:
“Fancy a cuppa? Just brewed some. Earl Grey, bit of honey. Strong, but warm.”
A pause. Then a nod.
“If you’ve got lemon. And if I’m not in the way.”
They sat at the small kitchen table. The man talked—haltingly, jumping between thoughts. About his mate’s burnt-down house. About stacking shelves in a warehouse so cold it numbed his bones. About hunting for warm clothes because winter wouldn’t wait. Thomas listened, remembering what it was like to talk to someone who wasn’t itching to leave. Who didn’t check his phone or watch the clock. Who just shared the evening, the tea, this little pocket of warmth.
He refilled cups, stirred in honey, asked small questions. Practical, ordinary. The man answered with a note of surprise, as if he’d forgotten what it was like for someone to care. Between sips, between words, a quiet settled—not heavy, but alive, warm as breath.
An hour later, the man stood. Gently, like he feared breaking something fragile. At the door, he said:
“Cheers. Not just for the jumpers. For… this.”
Thomas stayed at the table. Finished his tea, watching the steam fade. Then he walked to the bedroom. There, on the chair, lay a third jumper—grey, the oldest of them all. It smelled of the past, of someone who’d also known how to listen. He picked it up, ran his fingers over the wool, and tucked it back into the drawer.
He didn’t want to sell it anymore.
*Lesson learned: Sometimes what we think is clutter is just warmth waiting to be shared.*
