Missing the train, she returned home without warning and couldn’t hold back her tears.
Running late, Emma decided to head back without calling. The moment she stepped through the door, the tears came uncontrollably. A cold October wind whipped sharp raindrops against her face. She watched the train pull away, and frustration flooded her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of regular journeys homeshe had missed it. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform was empty and eerie, yellow lamplight reflecting in puddles, casting strange trails of light.
*”Next train isnt until tomorrow morning,”* the ticket clerk said indifferently, barely glancing at her. *”Theres always the coach?”*
Emma frowned. *Three hours rattling down some potholed back road? No thanks.*
Her phone buzzed in her bagMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why cause worry? Better to just go homeshe always had her keys. The taxi sped through empty city streets, and through the window, the town looked like a stage setflat, unreal.
The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic, but Emma wasnt listening. Inside her, an odd feeling grewnot quite dread, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled familiar childhood scents: third-floor roast potatoes, laundry powder, the faint tang of old wood. But today, something in that familiar symphony felt off.
The key stuck in the lock as though resisting her. The hallway was dark and silenther parents were clearly asleep. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything as it should be: bookshelves, her old study desk, the threadbare teddy on the beda relic Mum couldnt bear to part with. Yet something was wrong. Something intangible had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Not the usual nighttime quiet, but something denser, stickierlike the hush before a storm. The house seemed to be holding its breath. Emma pulled out her laptopwork never waited. But reaching for the socket, her hand knocked a small box off the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded stamps. And a photographold, edges curled. A young Mum, barely more than a girl, laughing against the shoulder of a stranger. The first tear fell before she even realised she was crying.
With shaking hands, she opened the first letter. The handwritingbold, confident, utterly unfamiliar.
*”Dearest Vera, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our Forgive me, its terrifying even to writeof our 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, 1993 Her whole childhood, her whole life, written in this strangers hand.
*”saw her from a distance outside school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than her. I didnt dare approach”*
*”Fifteen years old. I imagine shes grown into a beauty. Vera, perhaps the time has come?”*
A lump formed in her throat. Emma switched on the lamp, and in the yellow light, an old photograph sharpened into focus. She studied the unfamiliar face hungrily. High forehead, intelligent eyes, a hint of a smirk Good God, she had his nose. That same tilt of the head.
*”Emma?”*
Mums quiet voice made her jump.
*”Why didnt you?”*
Vera froze in the doorway, staring at the letters scattered across the floor. The colour drained from her face.
*”Mum, what is this?”* Emma held up the photo. *”Dont say hes just an old friend. I can see I can feel”*
Mum sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands trembled.
*”Nicholas Nicholas William Hartley,”* she said faintly, as if speaking from another room. *”I thought this story was buried”*
*”Story?”* Emmas whisper was raw. *”This is my life! Why did you never tell me? Why did hewhy did everyone?”*
*”Because we had to!”* Pain broke through Mums voice. *”You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt allow it. He was transferred to another town. No discussion. A month later, I met your”* She faltered. *”Stephen. A good man. Steady.”*
*Steady*, the word echoed bitterly in Emmas mind. *Like an old sofa. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this flat.*
*”But the letters Why keep them?”*
*”Because I couldnt throw them away!”* Mums voice cracked. *”It was all I had left. He wrote every month, then less but he wrote.”*
Emma picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”Dearest Vera, Ive moved to Oakvale, bought a house on Linden Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, N.”*
*”Oakvale,”* Emma whispered. *”Thats only four hours from here.”*
Mum paled.
*”Dont even think Emma, dont dredge up the past!”*
*”The past?”* Emma stood. *”This isnt the past. Its my present. And I have a right to know.”*
Dawn broke outside. A new day demanded new choices.
*”Im going there. Today.”*
For the first time that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Oakvale met her with a biting wind and drizzling rain. The small town seemed frozen in time: two-storey cottages, sparse foot traffic, quiet lanes straight from the pages of a provincial novel.
Linden Lane was on the outskirts. Emma walked slowly, scanning house numbers. Her heart pounded so hard she swore the street could hear it.
Number 17. Neat, compact, with curtains drawn and yellow asters in the front garden. The gate wasnt locked.
*What do I even say to him?* *”Hello, Im your daughter?”*
But she didnt have to decide.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book slipped from his fingers.
*”Vera?”* he breathed.
*”No not Vera.”*
*”Im Emma,”* her voice shook. *”Emma Stevens though Im not sure about the surname anymore.”*
Nicholas Hartley went white, gripping the porch railing.
*”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 Millais *Ophelia* hung by the stairsEmmas favourite painting since childhood.
*”I always knew this day would come,”* Nicholas 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 ache in his voice squeezed Emmas chest.
*”Every birthday,”* he said softly, *”I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.”*
He opened the next room. Emma gasped. Along the wall stood neat stacks of books, each tied with a ribbon.
*”First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,”* he lifted the top one carefully. *”*The Little Prince* with the authors illustrationsseven. I chose what Id have read to you.”*
She ran a finger over the spines. Thirty years of conversations never had, thirty years of stories unread.
*”And this”* he pulled out a worn volume, *”your first published piece. Literary review, short story *Letters to Nowhere*. I recognised your styleyou write like I do.”*
*”You followed my work?”* She didnt know whether to be furious or weep.
*”Not followed. Just lived parallel. Like a shadow. Like a reflection in a warped mirror.”*
They talked until evening. About books and poetry, roads not taken. How hed watched her graduationhidden by trees in the schoolyard. How hed sent anonymous feedback on her early articles.
When dusk fell, Emma realised shed been calling him *Dad* for hours. The word had slipped out, natural as breathing.
*”I should go,”* she stood. *”Mums probably frantic.”*
*”Tell her”* He stopped.
