Missing the train, she returned home unannounced, unable to hold back her tears.
Late for the last departure, Emma had decided to head back without calling. The moment she stepped inside, the dam broke. A sharp October wind whipped rain against her face as she watched the distant lights of the train vanish into the dark. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine commuteslate. “Like a bad dream,” she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform was deserted, eerie, only the yellow glow of streetlamps reflecting in puddles, casting strange pathways of light.
“Next train isnt till tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk said flatly, not even glancing up. “Theres a coach, if you prefer.”
Emma winced. “Three hours rattling down some backroad? No, thank you.”
Her phone buzzed in her handbagMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why worry her? Better to just go home. The keys were always in her pocket. The cab sped through empty streets, the city beyond the window flat and artificial, like a painted backdrop.
The driver mumbled something about the weather and traffic, but Emma wasnt listening. Inside her, something unfamiliar stirrednot fear, not joy.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar scents of her childhood: roast potatoes from the flat above, laundry detergent, the faint musk of aged wood. But tonight, the usual symphony was off-key.
The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if the door resisted. The hallway was dark, silenther parents had already gone to bed. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything was as shed left it: shelves of books, the old study desk, the threadbare teddy bear on the beda relic Mum could never bear to throw away. Yet something was wrong. Something intangible had shifted.
Was it the silence? Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Emma pulled her laptop from her bagwork never slept. But as she reached for the socket, her hand brushed against a small box. It toppled from the shelf, scattering its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, its corners bent. A young Mum, barely more than a girl, laughing, pressed against the shoulder of a man Emma didnt recognise. The first tear fell before she even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, assured, utterly unfamiliar.
*”Dearest Grace, I know I shouldnt write, but silence is unbearable. Every day I think of you, of our… Forgive me, even writing it is terrifyingour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Her heart hammered. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993her entire childhood, her entire life, spelled out in this strangers script.
*”…I saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I couldnt bring myself to approach…”*
*”…Fifteen years old. I imagine what a beauty shes become. Grace, perhaps its time…?”*
A lump rose in her throat. The desk lamps glow sharpened the photographs details. Now she studied the strangers face with desperate focus. High forehead, intelligent eyes, a smirk playing at his lipsGod, she had his nose. Even the tilt of his head…
“Emma?” The quiet voice made her jump. “Why didnt you?”
Grace froze in the doorway, colour draining from her face as she saw the letters strewn across the floor.
“Mum, what is this?” Emma held up the photograph. “Dont say he was just a friend, I can seeI can feel”
Her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
“William… William Hartley,” she whispered, as if speaking from another room. “I thoughtI thought this would stay buried.”
“Buried?” Emmas voice cracked. “Mum, this is my life! Why did you lie? Why did hewhy did everyone?”
“Because we had to!” Pain tore through Graces words. “You dont understand, things were different then. His family, mine… They wouldnt let us be together.”
Silence settled like a heavy cloth. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe same one Emma had missed today. Coincidence? Or had fate decided the truth was done waiting?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened, while the room held the bitter scent of cold tea and unspoken words.
“He was an English teacher,” Grace murmured, as if afraid to startle the memories. “Fresh out of uni, assigned to our school. Handsome, clever, recited poetry from memory… Half the girls were in love with him.”
Emma barely recognised her. Where was the ever-composed woman she knew? This was someone elseyoung, reckless, with fire in her eyes.
“And then…” Her mothers jaw tightened. “Then I found out I was pregnant. You cant imagine the scandal. His parents called me a provincial distraction, mine”
“And you just… gave up?” Bitterness laced Emmas words.
“He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, I was introduced to your” She faltered. “To Robert. A good man. Dependable.”
*Dependable*, the echo whispered in Emmas mind. *Like an old armchair. Like a cupboard. Like everything in this flat.*
“But the letters… Why keep them?”
“Because I couldnt throw them away!” For the first time, real anguish broke through. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less… But he wrote.”
Emma picked up the last letter. Three years ago.
*”Dearest Grace, Ive moved to Whitford, bought a house on Elm Lane. Perhaps one day… Always yours, W.”*
“Whitford,” she breathed. “Thats only three hours from here.”
Her mother went pale. “Dont even thinkEmma, dont dig up the past”
“The past?” Emma stood. “Mum, this isnt the past. Its now. *My* now. And I have a right to know.”
Dawn brightened the window. A new day demanded new choices.
“Im going,” Emma said firmly. “Today.”
And for the first time in that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Whitford greeted her with a biting wind and drizzling rain. The village seemed frozen in time: old brick houses, few pedestrians, quiet lanes straight out of a countryside novel.
Elm Lane was on the outskirts. Emma walked slowly, eyes fixed on the house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly it might have echoed down the street.
Number 17. Small, neat, with curtains drawn and yellow chrysanthemums by the gate. It wasnt locked.
*What do I even say?* The thought flickered. *Hello, Im your daughter?*
But the choice was taken from her.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
“Grace?” he whispered.
“No… Not Grace.”
“Im Emma.” Her voice shook. “Emma Carter… though Im not sure about the surname now.”
William Hartley went very still, gripping the porch rail.
“My God…” was all he managed. “Come in. Please.”
The house smelled of books and freshly brewed coffee. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with volumes.
A print of Turners *The Fighting Temeraire* hung framedher favourite painting since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” William said, fumbling with mugs. “But I imagined it a thousand different ways…”
“Why didnt you fight for us?” The question tore free.
He stilled, kettle in hand. “Because I was weak,” he said simply. “Because I believed it was for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.”
The raw pain in his voice constricted her chest.
“Every birthday,” he said, gaze drifting past her, “I bought you a gift. Theyre all here…”
He opened a door. Emma gasped. Neat stacks of books, each tied with ribbon, filled the room.
“First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he said softly, lifting the topmost book. “*The Little Prince* with Saint-Exupérys illustrationsseven… I chose what I wished I couldve read to you.”
Emma traced the spines. Thirty years of conversations never had, thirty years of stories never shared.
“And this…” He pulled out a worn volume. “Your first published piece. Literary journal, *Letters to Nowhere*. I knew your styleyou write like I do.”
“You followed
