One of those days when nothing hurts—just aches.
By the bus stop near the old market square in Sheffield, a woman stands smoking, shielding the flame from the gusty wind with one hand while clutching a faded canvas bag with the other. The bag hangs low, weighed down not by its contents but by the heaviness of unspoken burdens. She lingers at the pavement’s edge, as if guarding this single square of stable ground in a world that feels blurred and unsteady.
Her name is Eleanor. She’s forty-eight, though she looks younger—sharp cheekbones, careless bun of dark hair, light eyes ringed with shadows not from sleeplessness but from the absence of warmth, attention, or anything resembling magic.
Inside, she isn’t broken—just tired. Tired of identical days blurring together, of the alarm’s shrill cry, of hollow answers like “fine” or “same as always” that mask the truth. Tired of evenings ending in silence, without questions or someone beside her. Tired of piecing herself together every morning just to make it through.
She woke at seven. The house creaked as her son, Oliver, rushed off to college, tossing a careless “morning” over his shoulder without stopping in the kitchen. She lay there a moment longer, staring at the cracked ceiling, before forcing herself up.
In the mirror—just a face. No anger, no joy, not even irritation. Just a face. She drank her coffee standing by the counter, shrugged on her coat, grabbed her bag, and left. The day didn’t begin—it just carried on from the last.
Today’s errands took her into the city centre—pick up a document, a quick visit to the neurologist, and, if time allowed, a new jacket for Oliver. The pavement was slick with rain. People hurried past as she walked, clutching her bag like a shield. On the way, she bought two sausage rolls. Ate one, tucked the other in a napkin for the homeless man usually by the underpass. He wasn’t there today. She left the roll on the bench anyway. Just in case.
The doctor’s waiting room was full—four elderly women chattering about blood pressure, their gardens, and the cramped consulting room where “that poor doctor can barely breathe.” Eleanor sat by the wall, scrolling through headlines—bombs, deaths, tragedies that felt distant, glossy smiles that didn’t. She locked her phone. Not because it bored her, but because none of it seemed to matter.
The neurologist talked about “stress-related symptoms” and “needing rest.” She nodded, pretending to listen, while one thought looped in her mind: where could she find a place to simply lie down and stop? No strength, no smiles, no holding on. Just vanishing for a day.
Outside, the air had turned bitter. Wind slipped beneath her collar. She bought a paper cup of tea, sipping it slowly, savouring the fleeting warmth. Sat on a bench in the square, bag pressed to her side, breath fogging her scarf.
A man settled beside her. Late fifties, maybe. Wrinkles around his eyes, shoulders slumped. Without looking at her, he murmured, “Cold out. Still don’t fancy going home.”
She wasn’t surprised. It was as if he’d spoken her own thoughts aloud. They talked—about work, about food, about life’s odd twists. He was a night-shift security guard at a supermarket. His wife had gone to stay with their daughter and likely wasn’t coming back. Letters arrived less often now. He didn’t open them.
She worked at the post office. Lived with her mother, who forgot names, dates, sometimes even her own reflection. Woke at night searching for her long-dead husband. Five years gone. They spoke calmly, like discussing the weather, not the ache beneath.
Silence. Sips of tea. His coat flapped in the wind. Then he stood, hesitating before saying, “You won’t mind if I remember you?”
“No. Just don’t mix me up.”
He smiled for the first time. “Won’t forget. Just nice to know someone’s real. Not on a screen. Not in some headline. Actually here.”
He walked away without looking back. She watched until the wind swallowed him.
That evening, Oliver returned. She reheated dinner, asked about his day. He shrugged, thumbing his phone. Then, unexpectedly, he glanced up. “How was yours?”
The fork paused mid-air. Four words, and something flickered inside. “Just a day,” she said slowly. “Like any other.”
He nodded. Didn’t look away immediately. It wasn’t much. But in her world, where days blurred together like carbon copies—even that meant something.
Later, lying in the dark, she wondered if somewhere, someone was thinking of that bench, the tea, and the quiet moment when kindness slipped in unannounced.
It was enough. Not a miracle—just an anchor. Enough to get up tomorrow. To step into the next day, and the next.
