When Eleanor turned thirty, the world around her seemed to have settled into a long, uneasy pause.
By day she sat in the cramped office of a modest tech startup in Manchester, polishing copy on the company website, correcting misplaced commas and inventing terse labels for buttons. By night she returned to her onebedroom flat on the seventh floor, its window looking out onto a grey brick wall and a thin sliver of sky. She lived with Andrew, a programmer from the same office, but their relationship had been stuck for a year between seeing each other and something more definite.
They met two or three times a week. Sometimes Andrew stayed over, sometimes Eleanor went to his tidy, almost impersonal flat where the walls were white and the television spanned an entire wall. Their conversations increasingly revolved around projects, the latest series, and where to get the best deals on groceries. Whenever the future came up, Andrew would deflect or say it wasnt the right time to rush.
Eleanor would nod, but inside a knot tightened each time. She couldnt even put her desires into words. On one hand, the thought of marriage and children terrified hershe imagined the endless compromises. On the other, the lingering uncertainty was wearing her down.
In early April her mother called and said the old family house needed clearing out. The property was to be let, and some of the furniture and crockery sold. Her grandmother had died the previous autumn, and nobody had bothered with the attic or the high shelves until now.
Youre the most organised of us, her mother said. Ill be at work until late, Aunt Nancy will come to help, but she cant lift heavy boxes. Go over, see what can be tossed.
Eleanor agreed without enthusiasm. She loved her grandmother, but in recent years the woman lived in her own world, mixing up names and forgetting who had visited the day before. Memories of her were less about conversation than about the scent of jam and the rustle of old newspapers.
On Saturday morning she drove to the cottage in a neighbouring suburb, a ninestorey block of flats whose entrance smelled of dust and something ancient. The door opened with the familiar squeak of old hinges. Inside everything was as it had been in autumn: a carpet with faded patterns, a grey sofa draped with a blanket, sideboards with glass doors.
Aunt Nancy was already therea short, plump woman in a darkblue housecoat, standing in the middle of the room with a rag, ordering where books and dishes should go.
Dont throw away the photo albums, she said immediately. Your mother kept them safe.
Eleanor nodded and pulled a lower shelf from the sideboard, where old folders and boxes lay hidden. Dust tickled her nose, the glass trembled slightly as she shifted stacks of yellowed envelopes.
Among the notebooks and postcards lay a modest wooden frame with a photograph. The glass was a little cloudy, but the faces were clear. Her grandmother, perhaps thirtyplus, stood in a park. Her hair was pulled back, she wore a lightpatterned dress. Beside her was a man in a military uniform, no cap, short dark hair. He looked toward the photographer while her grandmother stared at him. There was something in her gaze Eleanor had never noticed before.
She turned the frame over. In faded ink it read: Lydia and Colin. 1947. Below that were illegible marks, as if someone had started to add something and then stopped.
Aunt Nancy, who are they? Eleanor asked, holding up the frame.
Aunt Nancy stared at it, her breath catching for a heartbeat.
Oh, thats old junk, she replied quickly, turning away. Put it with the others.
But my grandmother and this Colin. Ive never heard of him.
Everyone had photographs with someone, Aunt Nancy waved dismissively. Well sort it later. Look at the albums down below, dont mix them up with magazines.
Her tone was too hurried. Eleanor felt a spark of curiosity. She studied the mans face again. Nothing familiar in his features or expression, yet the way her grandmother looked at him held her attention.
The rest of the day they spent sorting through the belongings. By evening Eleanor had a box of photographs and letters, promising to organise everything at home. Aunt Nancy merely shrugged.
Ill do what I think is best. Those papers mean nothing to me now.
Back in her flat, Eleanor set the box on the kitchen table and stared at it for a while. Andrew texted that he couldnt come over; a deadline loomed. She replied okay and muted the phone.
The room filled with the soft rustle of paper as she turned through the pictures. There was her grandmother as a teenager in a school uniform, her mother as a child in a knitted hat, a summer garden table surrounded by strangers. The photograph with the uniformed man lay slightly aside, the frame pressed against the wall.
Eleanor found herself repeatedly glancing at it. Finally she placed the frame front and centre.
Lydia and Colin. 1947.
The family always said that Grandma Lydia married her husband Victor in the late 40s. They spoke little of the war, only vague phrases. Victor died when Eleanors mother was five. No other men ever entered the family lore.
She snapped a few phone pictures of the frame to show her mother later, then set it aside. Sleep eluded her that night; questions churned in her mind.
The next day she visited her mother, who lived two bus stops from the tube in a twobedroom flat with a balcony overrun with flower pots.
So, did you sort everything? her mother asked, laying tea and biscuits on the table. Did Aunt Nancy complain?
Aunt Nancy was a bit touchy, but I managed, Eleanor replied, pulling the photograph from her bag. Mum, do you know who this is?
Her mother took the frame, squinting. Her expression shifted for a moment, then returned to its usual mask.
Thats your grandmother. Dont you recognise her?
The man?
What man? her mother pretended to study the background. Oh, that one. I dont recall. Everyone had photos taken back then.
The frame says Lydia and Colin. You never mentioned him.
Her mother set the frame down, sipping her tea.
People had lives before we were born, love affairs that faded. Its not worth digging up.
Why not? I just want to know what I dont know about her. She never really talked about that time.
Its better left alone, her mother snapped, her voice hardening. The past is the past. No point chasing ghosts.
Eleanor felt a surge of stubbornness.
Its just curiosity. I realised I know so little about Grandma. She kept almost everything hidden.
Then it stayed hidden, her mother retorted. Some things are better untouched.
She rose and went to the kitchen for more tea, the conversation clearly over.
Later, alone, Eleanor zoomed in on the back of the photograph. Beneath Lydia and Colin. 1947 the faint word June could be discerned, but nothing more.
The following days at work went on as usual, yet her thoughts kept returning to the uniformed man. During breaks she found herself glancing at his face on her phone, trying to imagine his character.
Andrew kept suggesting dates, but always had an excusetraining, a meetup with friends, a urgent code review. Eleanor agreed to postpone, but each time she felt a growing fatigue.
One evening, while rifling through the letters, she recalled a photo of her grandmother standing in front of a sign that read Railway Workers Club dated 1949. It meant Lydia had lived in the town of Kaliningrad after the warnow known as a different name. Eleanor searched online for postwar records, finding a local history forum that listed missing soldiers. She hoped Colins surname might appear, but none was given.
On a weekend she called Aunt Nancy.
Aunt Nancy, did Grandma live in Kaliningrad after the war? Eleanor asked.
Yes, they were evacuated there for a while, Nancy replied. Why?
Do you remember who Colin was?
There was a pause.
You keep bringing up that Colin, Nancy sighed. Listen, Eleanor, leave it be. War, hunger, people came and went. I dont want to dig up old wounds.
But you must know something.
I do, but it hurts. And Mum wouldnt like us poking around her past.
Eleanors voice softened. I just want to understand who she was, not to judge anyone.
Another pause, then Aunt Nancy said, Alright. Come over on Sunday, just you, no Mum. Well talk.
The week dragged on like a stretched rope. At work she mechanically corrected copy, while at night she sifted through the letters, hoping for a mention of Colin. Most envelopes contained postcards from friends or the occasional note from Victor.
On Thursday, Andrew suggested a cheap seaside break for the summer.
We could grab a lastminute package, two weeks, he said over the phone. You were thinking of taking some time off, right?
I was, Eleanor replied. What then?
Then what?
I mean we go, we relax. And after?
He was silent.
Then autumn comes, work, projects, life, he finally said. Thats it.
She felt that familiar irritation rise.
Fine, well talk later, she said, hanging up.
Sunday arrived, and Eleanor drove to Aunt Nancys modest brick house near the park. The kitchen smelled of fried onions and laundry. Deerpatterned rugs hung on the walls beside family photographs.
Come in, Aunt Nancy said, adjusting her glasses. Tea?
Thanks, Eleanor answered, taking a seat.
Aunt Nancy placed a mug before her and folded her hands on the table.
So you want to know about Colin, she began without preamble. Just be careful what you tell your mother. She lived through that all in her own way.
Eleanors throat went dry.
Your mother was born here, in London, Nancy continued. Before that, Lydia and Victor lived in Kaliningrad. She was evacuated there during the war and met Colin in the hospital. He was a lieutenant, wounded, stationed at a guard post.
She took a sip of tea, pausing.
They loved each other, Nancy whispered. I was little then, but I remember him bringing chocolatesomething rare in those days. Lydia laughed with him. I never saw her smile like that again.
Why didnt he become my grandfather? Eleanor asked, the weight in her chest growing.
Because they took him, Nancy said, staring out the window. In 47 there were background checks. His brother had been captured, which was a stain. He was summoned, vanished, never returned. Lydia kept writing appeals, but the answers stopped. He was probably arrested.
Eleanor clenched her mug.
Did she wait for him?
At first, yes. A year, then two. Then people told her to stop looking, that it was dangerous. Her father had died on the front, she was left to raise us alone. Folks urged her to marry someone reliableVictor.
And Victor loved her?
He was a solid bloke, worked at the factory, Partymember, didnt drink. But he never loved her the way Colin did. You could see it. They lived together, but the fire was missing.
Aunt Nancy exhaled.
Your mother was born a year after Lydias wedding. The family never spoke of Colin. It was safer to forget. Lydia tucked his photos into a back drawer, one ending up in that frame.
Did Mum know?
She found letters as a teen, when Lydia slammed the door on her. She called it old nonsense. But a girl sees through that. She sensed another love, another loss. It haunted her.
A pang rose in Eleanors throat. She felt pity for Lydia, for her mother, and for the unknown soldier in the uniform.
Why does Mum react so sharply? she asked. Its been decades.
Because she spent her life feeling her father wasnt the man her mother loved most, Nancys voice softened. She once said, Im just in the way. If I werent here, Mum might still be waiting for Colin. Children think that, even if its nonsense. It stuck with her. She clings to the right family, to stability, and any reminder of Colin feels like a knife.
Eleanor remembered her mothers constant mantra: Family comes first, dont chase fantasies, live quietly. Those words now rang with a different echo.
Did Grandma ever regret? Eleanor whispered.
Who can say? Nancy shrugged. She never spoke about it outright, but sometimes Id catch her holding a letter, her face alive, sad. I think she loved, feared, and bore the weight of those choices.
Silence settled. A car passed outside, the kitchen clock ticked.
Dont be angry with your mother, Nancy finally said. Shes right in her own way. Not everything needs to be unearthed, but pretending nothing happened isnt right either. Youve learned somethinguse it.
Walking home, Eleanor avoided the tube, letting the autumn air fill her lungs. Aunt Nancys stories swirled with images: a grandmother clutching a letter, a teenage mother discovering hidden correspondence, a uniformed man disappearing into bureaucratic shadows.
She realised each of them had lived their truth, shaped by fear and circumstance. Lydia chose safety for her children; her mother chose conformity to protect herself; now Eleanor stood at a crossroads, wondering what she would choose.
That night Andrew called, his voice light.
So, any treasure in the archive? he joked. Found any gold?
I found a story, Eleanor replied. Not a happy one.
She gave him a brief account, leaving out the raw edges. He listened in silence.
Its strange, he said finally. I wouldnt waste my energy on the past. Nothing changes.
Its not about changing, Eleanor answered. Its about understanding why my mother is the way she is, and why I am the way I am.
What do you mean?
She hesitated.
Ive been postponing decisions, thinking time will sort everything. Now I see Im living halfheartedly.
Okay, wait a bit, Andrew laughed. Lifes long enough for all the indecision.
His laugh sounded distant, a thin wall between them. She felt a gap widen, not physical but emotional. She wanted him to ask deeper questions, to care about her inner world, but he seemed intent only on steering her away from the heaviness.
Lets meet tomorrow, talk, she said.
Sounds ominous, he teased.
Just talk, she repeated.
That night she tossed and turned, the grandmothers photograph haunting her thoughts. Lydias gaze at Colin seemed to hold a whole lifetime of love, fear, and sacrifice that had rippled down through generations.
The next day they met in a bustling café near the station. The room buzzed with laughter, music playing softly from the speakers. Andrew arrived in his familiar sweater, set his phone on the table, and ordered a coffee.
So, whats the serious talk? he asked, taking a sip.
Eleanor stared at his familiar face, every line etched into her memory. Suddenly she realised she could not picture herself with him ten years from now. It wasnt that he was bad; it was that their relationship lacked the inner agreement she now craved.
Ive been thinking a lot about us, she began. It feels like were always halfway. You dont want to discuss the future, I keep stepping back. That cant go on.
He frowned.
Do you want to get married? he asked bluntly.
I need to know were moving in the same direction, that we share a plan, shared desires. Right now it feels like were just passing time together.
He stared into his cup.
Im not ready for big commitments, he said finally. My career is just taking off. I dont want a mortgage, a house. Im fine as I am.
Im not fine, Eleanor replied evenly. I dont want to wake up in five years and realise Ive just drifted.
He sighed.
So youre suggesting we break up?
The words landed like ordinary conversation, yet Eleanors chest tightened. She knew she was taking a step that would reshape her life, even if not as dramatic as wartime stories.
Yes, she said. It feels the honest thing.
He nodded, as if hed expected it.
Too bad, he said. But youre right. I cant promise what I dont feel.
They lingered a little longer, discussing how to split belongings. The talk was oddly calm. When they stepped outside, Andrew gave her an awkward hug, whispered take care, and vanished into the tube.
Eleanor stood on the pavement, watching him disappear. A hollow emptiness settled in her, yet also a subtle relief. No euphoria, no despairjust a quiet fatigue and a fresh space inside.
That evening she went to her mothers house. Her mother met her at the door in a bathrobe, a towel on her head.
Whats wrong with you? her mother asked, eyes scanning Eleanors face.
Ive split with Andrew, Eleanor said, matteroffact.
Her mothers hands fluttered.
Why are you, young people, so impatient? You think everything should be handed to you immediately. What if it could have worked out?
We see the future differently, Eleanor replied. I dont want to live in limbo.
Her mother wanted to say more but stopped, sighing.
Fine. Your life, your choice. Just remember its not all sugar.
They moved to the kitchen. Her mother turned on the kettle, rummaged for jam.
Eleanor placed the framed photographShe slipped the photograph back onto the shelf, its quiet presence finally anchoring the past and letting her step forward into the life she now chose.
