Lyra and William met back in university, both living in student halls. They knew they’d stay together, but only after graduation. Life, as ever, twisted their simple plans—Lyra fell pregnant in her final year.
“Will, what do we do?” Lyra stared at him in despair. “You know how strict my mum is. She barely let me go to uni. I promised her I wouldn’t end up like her, unmarried with a baby. And now? How do I go home? She’ll kill me.” Lyra bit her lip, fighting tears.
William was terrified too, but he did the decent thing. His parents hadn’t set conditions when they’d sent him off to study in Manchester. He loved Lyra, messy and weeping, so he proposed they marry. Finals loomed—no time for a wedding.
He rang his parents, confessed everything, said he’d return after graduation with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course, but what was done was done. Let them come home together.
Lyra hid her swelling belly behind William’s back in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father scowled; his mother shook her head, lecturing them about rushing into parenthood, marrying without blessing. Bad luck, that. Was this any way to start a life? They tutted and argued but decided to help. Sold their holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought the young couple a one-bed flat in Leeds.
“Did what we could. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Lyra had a daughter.
William worked, but money was always short. His parents had given all they could—no use begging for more. Time to stand on his own feet. Then an old schoolmate offered him a computer sales gig.
“Solid business. Everyone wants PCs now. I’ve got supplier contacts—we’ll make a killing. You know tech; I’m still learning. Together? We’ll smash it.”
The rough ’90s were over. Still risky, but legal. William agreed—only he needed a hefty loan to start as equal partners.
They bought outdated stock cheap, fixed it up, installed software, sold it at triple the price. Business boomed. William repaid the debt and even bought a two-bed flat.
Their daughter grew; time for nursery. Lyra longed to work.
“Stay home. We’ve enough,” William grumbled. “Time for a son.”
“Let me breathe. I’ve just escaped nappies. Never worked a day since uni. And Ellie needs friends—how’ll she manage school?”
But nursery places were scarce. They offered Lyra a job as a teaching assistant—then they’d take Ellie. She agreed at once.
“A graduate, scrubbing floors? Embarrassing,” William fumed.
“Just a year, till Ellie’s in. Then I’ll find proper work. She’ll be right there—isn’t that good?”
Remote work wasn’t common yet. The internet crawled. William huffed but yielded.
Their business thrived, drawing envy. Then disaster—a new batch of laptops vanished overnight, the theft masked as a fire. Lost stock, debts piled high.
William’s mate turned to drink. Not William—he had a family. But the suppliers demanded payment. Sell the flat? Crawl back to his parents?
He hunted jobs, done with business. Fate intervened—a stranded car, a processor on the back seat. The driver, hearing William was tech-savvy, offered him work. A company needed systems set up, repairs done, simple coding. Perfect. William took it.
Debts cleared slowly. Life settled. Ellie grew; she’d finish school soon, head to uni. The worst seemed past.
That evening, William worked late. Lyra cooked dinner; Ellie played music with a friend. When the friend left, Ellie shouted, “Mum, I’ll walk her!”
“Not long!” Lyra called as the door slammed.
She switched off the hob, sat before the telly. Some film played. She lost track of time, didn’t notice William return.
“Quiet. Ellie in?” Rubbing his chilled hands. “Frost’s biting.”
Then Lyra remembered—Ellie had left ages ago. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Her friend lived round the corner. Lyra rushed to Ellie’s room. Empty. She rang the friend.
“Ellie’s not back? We parted ages ago.”
Panic. Lyra blamed herself. Why’d she let her go? She should’ve joined them. She paced, frantic, begged to run outside. The friend’s parents called, offered help. William barred the door, sat her by the phone. Useless—Lyra sobbed at every question.
“Yes, an unidentified girl was admitted an hour ago,” a hospital said.
Lyra wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop it. Let’s go.”
Ellie lived but lay in a coma. No prognosis. Lyra stayed by her bed, begging her awake. No miracle came. On the third day, Ellie died from head trauma.
November dawned damp and wild. Drizzle mixed with sleet. That cursed night, black ice struck. Ellie was almost home when a car—summer tyres—skidded on a bend. Her scream drowned in brake screeches. The driver lost control. A freak, cruel accident.
William clung to sanity, though grief crippled him. Lyra? He feared she’d break, go mad, follow Ellie. Post-funeral, she haunted the graveyard, mute, withdrawn. Home, she stared blankly, swung between rage and blame.
“If your bloody business hadn’t failed, if not for your debts, I’d have had another child—” Forgetting it was William who’d begged for a son.
He knew—he had to save Lyra. Madness loomed.
At work, sympathy poured in. Someone suggested a pet—a dog, a cat. Give her something to care for.
“She needs a focus. What did she love? Art? Music? Best cure for heartache,” the cleaner said.
True—Lyra had sketched well as a girl. Too poor for art school. She dragged William to galleries, though he knew nothing of it.
Home, he found Lyra before a dead screen. He sat, said he’d once dreamed of lion-taming.
“I wanted to paint. I was good, you know? And music—I sang well,” she droned.
William rang art schools. None would take her—too late. He scoured the web. Urgent—he feared for her mind.
A young man replied. Named his price—steep, but William agreed. Met him in a café.
The artist was late-twenties, sharp-featured, ponytailed, restless-eyed, all in black. He listed supplies.
“Get what’s needed. I’ll pay,” William said. Warned him of Lyra’s state—no talk of kids.
“I don’t need her to master it. Just distract her,” William stressed. “I’ll handle payments.”
Next day, the artist arrived with easel and paints. Lyra hesitated, then lost herself in art. William praised her shaky sketches.
“He says I’ve a keen eye for light, steady hands. Do you think so?”
“Definitely talented.”
Lyra glowed. For her smile, he’d say anything. She’d woken from grief.
One evening, the easel stood shoved aside. A torn painting lay on the floor. Lyra sat extinguished.
“What’s wrong? Tired of it? You were doing well. Did he not come?”
“He left. His mum’s ill—needs surgery. Expensive.” Her voice flat.
“You’re upset? He’ll return—” Something prickled at William.
“Poor lad. He wept for her.”
“Wait. For her, or the cost?”
“For her! He adores her. But he’s skint.”
“You gave him money.”
They’d saved for Ellie’s uni. Forgotten after her death. Lyra remembered. William opened the empty box.
He’d found this artist, invited him in, spilled Lyra’s vulnerability. Now heat surged—a conman. Playing on her grief, bleeding her dry. She’d offered cash herself. He dialled the artist. Number dead.
“Lyra, you gave him everything?” Calm, though fury seethed.
“Forgive me.”
“Not your fault.” He soothed her, rage inward. Why’d he let a stranger near her? The thief had gambled on her fractured mind. Could’ve killed her.
“Where’s his mum?”
“Birmingham, I think.”
Of course. As far as possible.
He calmed Lyra, went to the police. The inspector dithered—hopeless case. William bargained—free IT help for the station.
They traced the artist. No sick mum. He’d a pregnant girlfriend, evicted soon. Needed rent fast. Lyra was easy prey—played her pity. Took the cash, gambled she’d forget.
They caught him in time—rent unpaid, some spent on baby clothes.
William withdrew the complaint. Felt for the girl. Recovered most of the money.
The little grey kitten, Tosh, curled into Lyra’s lap that evening, purring like a tiny engine, and for the first time in months, the house didn’t feel so empty.
