**The Grey Mouse**
I glanced out the window. Children played in the park while their mothers stood nearby, chatting as they kept an eye on them. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
I slipped on my black boots, brown coat, and matching knitted hat, grabbed my black leather handbag, and left the flat. Pausing for a moment, I listened for footsteps or voices on the stairs before locking the door and descending.
From a distance, you might mistake me for an old woman. Only up close would you see I was barely fifty. My face was plain—small eyes, thin lips. The kind you’d forget instantly.
I’d moved into this building twenty-five years ago. I never spoke to anyone, avoided them all. At first, neighbours knocked—borrowing an onion or a cup of flour when the shops were closed. I’d open the door a crack, if at all, say I had nothing, and lock it again. Soon, they stopped bothering.
No guests ever visited. It seemed I was utterly alone in the world, which made me wary and withdrawn.
I did have family. A younger sister lived in a provincial town with her own family. But we weren’t close. Maybe because she’d been the pretty one. Who knows?
Strangers rarely entered my flat—just the odd plumber or gas inspector. I’d always ask for ID, scrutinise it, even phone their office to confirm.
I never harmed anyone. Never said a harsh word or gossiped. A quick nod, then I’d walk on, head down.
At work and in the yard, they called me a spinster, a grey mouse. I’d spent my whole life as an accountant in the same office—strict, efficient, always in dark dresses, my hair slicked back into a tight bun.
At thirty, I’d wanted a child. That was when the only man in my life appeared—a married driver named John. He’d visit occasionally. I bought him shirts he’d leave behind.
Then, whether his wife found out or a colleague tipped her off, John vanished without a word. I never got pregnant. That was my only love.
I consoled myself quickly. Better this way. Raising a child alone would’ve been hard, and who knew what he’d turn out like? A girl? Unthinkable. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world?
Once, leaving the shop with a heavy bag, a man offered to carry it home.
“I’m fine,” I said, glaring until he backed off.
*Typical,* I thought. *Helping? More like waiting to rob me. Not this time.*
I couldn’t be fooled. My mind worked like a calculator—cashiers never swindled me. I’d just stare until they corrected the bill.
One Saturday morning, close to Christmas, the doorbell rang. I waited, listening. It rang again. Peering through the peephole, I nearly mistook the girl on the landing for my sister.
“Who is it?” I asked, my pulse quickening.
“Aunt Alice, it’s me—Emily, your niece.”
“Niece? What do you want?”
*How did she find me? Why now?* Then I remembered—years ago, I’d visited my sister, boasting about my new flat. I must’ve given the address. No one had reached out since. I didn’t even know I had a niece.
“Aunt Alice, I need to talk to you.”
Something—her tearful tone or sheer curiosity—made me break my own rule. I opened the door.
“Why are you here?” I demanded, studying her. She was taller than me, pretty-faced, with the same grey eyes as my sister—only warm, not cold. Dark curls peeked from under her hat.
When I didn’t invite her in, she rushed, “Aunt Alice, I’ve nowhere else to go. My son’s very ill. We saw a specialist in London—he needs an urgent operation.” She paused, but I stayed silent.
“It’s expensive. I’ve asked everyone. Mum said only you could help.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. You’d understand if you saw him—” She covered her face, trembling.
Something twisted in my chest. For a second, I imagined *my* son suffering, *me* begging for help. My heart clenched—for her, for the boy I’d never met, even for myself.
“Come in,” I said, eyeing her wet boots pointedly.
She hovered in the hallway, too nervous to remove her coat. Peering into my flat, she whispered, “It’s lovely.”
I returned with a bulky envelope. “Take this. It’s enough.”
She clutched it like it might vanish. “Thank you!”
“How old is he?”
“Two and three months. He’s so sweet, so clever—”
I winced. Motherhood had bypassed me. Why listen to others’ joy? I just wanted her gone, but she babbled gratitude through tears.
“Have you got a husband?” I cut in.
She hesitated. “Yes, but—”
“Drinks?”
“No! He’s… overseas. Working to pay for our son’s treatment.” Her voice faltered.
“How will you get the money home? Aren’t you scared?”
She opened her coat to reveal a cloth bag strapped beneath. “No one will know.”
“Go straight home,” I said, ushering her out.
She kissed my hand, sobbing. I jerked away.
“Write after the operation.”
“I will!” she called from the stairs.
Locking the door, I eyed her muddy footprints. I meant to wipe them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while she travelled. Blood was blood.
At the window, snow drifted down. Emily hurried across the white courtyard. Suddenly, I wanted my fur coat—the one I’d never dared wear outside.
I’d bought it years ago, only trying it on before hiding it away. Too risky for errands. Someone might snatch it. But now, I thought—*Life’s passing. Who’ll inherit this? Better Emily than strangers.*
In the coat, I stood taller. The snow crunched underfoot. I reached the square, where children darted around a towering Christmas tree. A young man held out his phone.
“Can you take our photo?”
I recoiled—then met his eyes.
“What?”
“Just tap here,” he explained.
I fumbled but managed it. Later, I bought a cake in the shop frenzy. *Like everyone else,* I mused, almost expecting John and a son to greet me at home.
But the flat was empty. I stared at the cake—useless, since I never ate sweets.
Next door, the neighbour’s grandsons shrieked. Without thinking, I knocked.
The plump woman gaped. “Are you ill?”
“For your boys.” I thrust the cake at her and shut the door.
The next day, a telegram arrived. Emily had made it home safely. They’d leave for London tomorrow.
Only then did I realise—I’d never asked the boy’s name. *What if it was John?* A light name, blue as the sky. *Maybe my life wasn’t wasted.* The money was gone, yet I felt lighter, unafraid.
Three weeks later, Emily wrote. The operation was a success. Little John would recover. She promised to visit in summer—or better, I should come to them. Berries in the garden, the river nearby… They’d all be waiting. Maybe her husband would return from overseas unharmed…
