One early Sunday morning, Christopher was woken by a sharp knock at the door. Groggy, he grabbed his phone, squinting at the blank screen, until the knocking came again. He threw on some clothes and hurried to answer—everyone knows when someone bangs at your door at dawn, it’s serious.
“Alright, mate, took you long enough. Not happy to see your old pal?” On the doorstep stood his university friend, Ollie Hartman, grinning. “Gonna let me in or what?”
“Ollie? Bloody hell, what are you doing here?” Chris pulled him into a rough hug and dragged him inside. “No warning, you wanker. How’d you even find me?”
“Stopped by your mum’s. She gave me the address—said you’d divorced and buggered off here. I’m just passing through, made sure my train had a layover to see you. Now, where’s the kettle?”
“Kitchen’s that way. Stick the kettle on while I freshen up!” Chris called, disappearing into the bathroom.
When he returned, Ollie had already cracked open a bottle of red wine and was slicing cheddar.
“Hope you don’t mind. Your fridge was empty—living off air, are you? That’s what mates are for, stopping you from starving,” Ollie said, assembling sandwiches with care.
“Wine? At this hour?” Chris turned the bottle to check the label.
“Who’s stopping us? Just a bit of Dutch courage, helps the conversation flow.”
They drank, ate the sandwiches and scrambled eggs, and reminisced. Ollie had married young, right out of uni.
“Father-in-law retired, so I took over the construction firm. Go on, be jealous. Eldest just finished sixth form, the younger one’s in year eight. Life’s been good,” Ollie bragged. “But I’ve heard about you. Still never found your Emily, then?”
“You remember that?” Chris sighed. “No, never did.”
“Don’t tell me you’re living alone now.” Ollie shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.
“With my son. He’s at his mum’s for her birthday. Called yesterday, said he’d be back soon.”
Back in the day, Ollie and the lads had tried to talk Chris out of marrying Sophie. But he’d dug his heels in—because she reminded him of Emma, “Emily,” as they’d nicknamed her. Sophie’s boy had started calling him Dad straight off, and Chris had grown attached. But the marriage didn’t last.
Sophie remarried quickly, and Ollie’s son, Jake, never got on with the new stepdad. He kept running off to Chris. Sophie accused him of trying to steal the boy away. Fed up, Chris moved to Brighton.
“Jake spent every summer with me. Sophie had a new baby, and he got shoved aside. After A-levels, he moved in for good,” Chris explained.
“Blimey. EastEnders has nothing on you,” Ollie said, pouring the last of the wine.
“Nah, it’s all settled now.” They clinked glasses.
“Still hoped you’d find her someday. That was real love,” Ollie mused.
Chris stayed quiet. Lately, he’d hardly thought of Emma—but Ollie’s visit had stirred old memories.
At the station, they promised not to lose touch. Back home, Chris dug out an old photo album and found the picture of Emma. He stared at it hungrily, dragged back to those distant days…
****
Ollie had sweet-talked his dad into lending them his battered old Vauxhall, and the three mates drove south to visit Freddie’s relatives. With uni weeks away, why not sneak in a holiday?
In Cornwall, peach and grape harvest was in full swing. The lads were offered work—extra cash never hurt, especially for students. They toiled from dawn till the heat forced them into the cool sea.
That’s where they saw Emma. She sat on the shore, staring at the horizon.
“Emily waiting for her Prince Charming,” Ollie joked—and the nickname stuck.
The others had serious girlfriends, but Chris never had.
Ollie and Freddie whooped as they plunged into the waves. Chris approached the girl.
“Waiting for a ship with golden sails?” he teased.
She looked up, and the raw sorrow in her eyes silenced him. She turned back to the sea. He sat beside her, hugging his knees. She barely acknowledged him.
“Can you hear it?” Chris asked, listening to the waves.
“The sea’s whispering,” she replied—saying aloud what he’d thought.
They sat in silence, listening. When his mates signalled from the water, Chris stood reluctantly.
“See you tomorrow? Same time?” he asked, hopeful.
She didn’t answer, but she was there the next day. They talked. Her name—Emma—sounded perfect. But when he asked about her life, she stood and walked away. He followed, wordless, to her door.
Her mystery drew him in. That evening, he tossed a pebble at her window. She stepped outside in shorts and a loose blouse, more beautiful than ever. They walked the promenade—she silent, he babbling to mask his nerves.
The sunset painted the sky crimson, reflected in her eyes. He longed to photograph her, but she refused—until he waded into the water and snapped a shot before she could turn away.
That photo became his only proof she’d been real.
Every evening, they walked the shore. Once, he dared to lean in—she didn’t pull back, but tensed so violently he retreated. Her enigma deepened his obsession. Sunburnt and gaunt from skipping meals to see her, Chris returned late each night, rising at dawn. His mates stopped joking when they saw his absent stare.
Time was running out. He resolved to confess—but when he reached the shore, she wasn’t there. He sprinted to her house, only to find the gate locked. Another pebble brought an angry woman to the door.
“Piss off or I’ll call the police!”
“Please, is Emma here?” he begged.
“Gone home,” the woman snapped.
“Where?”
“Where d’you think? Now sod off!”
He returned that night, pleading for an address, but she slammed the door.
The next day, they drove home. The old car could break down any moment—they needed time for repairs. Chris barely spoke. His mates said if it was fate, he’d find her again.
By term’s end, Chris met Sophie—thin like Emma, but darker-haired, with a toddler. His parents begged him not to marry her, but he’d convinced himself it was destiny…
****
Chris lit a cigarette at the kitchen window, watching the sky lighten. “Hope Jake gets back soon,” he thought. No point sleeping now—work loomed.
At lunch, Jake called. “Got a surprise for you tonight. Don’t be late.”
“Your mum’s coming?”
“Nah, you’ll see.”
When Chris got home, Jake was chopping veg for salad. A cake box sat on the table.
“Blimey, what’s the occasion? Good trip?” Chris clapped his shoulder.
“All right. Sit down—need to tell you something—”
The doorbell rang. Jake dashed to answer.
“Dad, this is Lily—my girlfriend. Lily, this is my dad, Chris.” Jake frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In the doorway stood a slender, wide-eyed girl. For a heartbeat, Chris thought it was Emma. Why was Jake calling her Lily? Then he saw the differences—Emma’s hair had been curlier, her eyes sadder.
Over tea, Lily noticed the photo Chris had left out.
“That’s my mum!” she gasped. “We don’t have this one—where’d you get it?”
Jake peered at it.
“From Dad’s album. Lily—your mum’s name wasn’t Emma, was it? Where is she?” Chris’s voice shook. “No, it can’t be… How old are you?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“Dad’s just realised you could’ve been his daughter. Doesn’t matter—we’re not blood,” Jake joked, defusing the tension.
“Don’t be daft,” Chris snapped. “We weren’t like that. I just need to know—”
“She died when I was three,” Lily whispered, setting the photo down.
Chris collapsed onto the sofa.
“Dad—” Jake started.
“Wait,” Lily cut in, sitting beside Chris. “Mum married young—my dad—after she got pregnant. The doctors said she shouldn’t have me. She had a tumour, but she went ahead. After the birth, they operated. Dad said the chemo left her too weak to hold me, but she fought. He took us to Cornwall, to his aunt’s, but I got sick. Mum went alone. When she came back, she hugged me, crying. I screamed—too little to understand. A year later, she was gone. Dad remarried.”
“I’Chris stubbed out his cigarette, the weight of years pressing down on him, and whispered to the empty room, “Funny how life brings the past back—not to haunt you, but to remind you what really mattered all along.”
