Under a Chilly Sky
Emily sorted through her belongings to sell on Vinted. Not out of necessity—she was just tired of seeing them every day. Each item carried a memory. Of people who had vanished from her life. Of times that had melted away like snowflakes in her palm. Of the person she used to be. An old turtleneck jumper no one ever wore. A coat with a worn elbow. A frying pan, a birthday gift still unused. They filled her wardrobe, corners, the very air in her flat.
She photographed them by the window, where the light was softer than outside. Carefully hung them on hangers, smoothed out the creases, sometimes even fetched the iron. As if her efforts determined whether they’d find a new home or end up in a skip. She wanted someone, scrolling through listings, to pause and think: *This is mine. I need this.*
One evening, a man messaged her. Brief, to the point: *Still got the jumper?* It was late, nearly eleven. As if he’d hesitated before writing, as if this were his last chance.
She replied, *Yes, it’s here.* He asked for the address and added, *Be there soon.* No questions, no haggling—just a curt, *Wait for me.*
Emily barely had time to clear the dinner plates. When the intercom buzzed, her hands still smelled of onions. She wiped them on a tea towel, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, threw on a thin cardigan, and opened the door.
A man in his fifties stood on the step, his jacket faded, his eyes weary. They didn’t search her face but clung to something unseen—to a word, to warmth, to what had long been lost.
*”Evenin’. Here for the jumper. The dark green one, with the pattern.”*
*”Come in, I’ll fetch it. It’s in the other room,”* she said, stepping aside.
He lingered at the threshold, hesitant to cross it.
*”Cosy place you’ve got. Warm. My flat’s freezing—heating’s knackered. Keep meaning to fix it, never get round to it.”*
*”It’s dire, isn’t it?”* she replied, slipping into the bedroom. *”I bought a heater last winter. Wouldn’t survive without it.”*
She returned with two jumpers—the green one and another, deep blue.
*”Here, have a look. Maybe this one too? It’s warm, barely worn. Doesn’t itch.”*
He tried them on without removing his coat. Stared at the mirror in silence. Then, quietly, almost whispering:
*”My wife used to pick these. I don’t know how. Without her… nothing feels right. All of it’s just… foreign.”*
Emily nodded, asking nothing. Just straightened the blue jumper’s collar.
*”Which one d’you want?”*
*”Both, if that’s alright. One for me. One for a mate. His house burned down—lost everything. Him, his wife, the kids. All in temp housing now. No proper coats, nothing. We’re all chipping in where we can.”*
She almost said, *Take them, no charge*, but he was already reaching for his wallet, as if anticipating her words and keen to cut them off.
*”How much?”*
She quoted less than the listing. He handed over crumpled notes without meeting her gaze. His hands were rough, cracked—a labourer’s, weathered by wind and cold.
*”Ta.”*
*”Hope they keep you warm,”* she murmured.
He nodded but didn’t move. Stared at the floor, then suddenly looked up.
*”Sounds daft, but… your place. Feels peaceful. Like a home ought to. Like there’s still someone waiting. Like there’s still somewhere to come back to.”*
Emily froze. Then, surprising herself, she said:
*”Fancy a cuppa? Just brewed. Earl Grey with honey. Still hot.”*
He hesitated, then nodded. *”If there’s lemon. And if I’m not intruding.”*
They sat in her tiny kitchen. He spoke—haltingly, jumping between thoughts. About his mate’s burnt house. About the warehouse job where the cold seeped into your bones. About hunting for warm clothes because winter wouldn’t wait. Emily listened, realising how rare it was—to talk with someone who wasn’t rushing off. Who didn’t glance at their phone, itching to interrupt. Who simply shared the evening, the tea, this small pocket of warmth.
She refilled his cup, stirred in honey, asked simple questions. He answered, his voice edged with surprise, as if he’d forgotten what it was like—someone caring about his day. Between their words, between sips of tea, a quiet settled—not heavy, but alive, warm, like breath.
An hour later, he stood. Gently, as if afraid to break something fragile. At the door, he said:
*”Ta. Not just for the jumpers. For… this.”*
Emily stayed at the table. Finished her tea, watching the cup cool. Then she walked to the bedroom. On the chair lay a third jumper—grey, the oldest. It smelled of the past, of someone else who’d known how to listen. She picked it up, ran her fingers over the soft wool, and tucked it back into the wardrobe.
She didn’t want to sell it anymore.
