With her pension, Mary Thompson, after covering her basic utilities and buying groceries on sale, treated herself to a small indulgence—a bag of coffee beans.
The beans were already roasted, and when she snipped open the corner of the bag, they released a breathtaking aroma. She always inhaled with her eyes closed, shutting out all senses except smell, and that’s when the magic happened. The exquisite scent seemed to fill her with a newfound strength, bringing to mind dreams of faraway lands—ocean waves crashing, the sound of tropical rain, mysterious rustles in dense forests, and the wild cries of monkeys swinging through the vines.
Mary had never seen any of this, but she vividly remembered her father’s stories. He often went on research expeditions in South America and shared tales of his adventures in the Amazon Valley when he was home, sipping his robust coffee. Its scent always reminded her of him—a lean, sinewy, sun-kissed adventurer. She always knew her parents were not her biological ones.
She recalled how, at the onset of the war, she was a three-year-old girl who had lost her family when she was taken in by a woman who became her mother for life. Then everything unfolded as it does for most people: school, studies, work, marriage, the birth of her son…and then the cycle ended in loneliness. Her son, persuaded by his wife, had moved to the city of Brighton two decades ago, where he thrived with his family. In all that time, he visited his hometown only once. They kept in touch, and he sent her money every month, but she saved it in a dedicated account. Over twenty years, it accumulated a considerable amount, which would return to him. Eventually…
Lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lived a good life, full of care and love, yet it wasn’t truly hers. If not for the war, she would have had a different family, different parents, and a different childhood home. Her fate would have been different. She scarcely remembered her real parents but often recalled a girl her age who was always by her side in those early years, named Anna. She could still hear the playful calls of, “Annie, Mary!” Who was she? A friend, a sister?
A short beep from her mobile phone interrupted her thoughts. She glanced at the screen—her pension had been deposited on her card! How timely! She could now walk to the store and buy some coffee—she had brewed the last cup that morning. Carefully tapping her cane on the sidewalk, avoiding the autumn puddles, Mary made her way to the store’s entrance.
Outside the door, a little grey tabby cat huddled, nervously glancing at passersby and the glass doors. A pang of pity touched her heart: “Poor thing, you must be cold and hungry. I’d take you home, but…who would look after you when I’m gone? My time may be today or tomorrow.” Yet, feeling sorry for the unfortunate creature, she bought an affordable packet of cat food.
She carefully squeezed the jelly-like substance into a plastic tray, and the cat waited patiently, gazing at her benefactor with grateful eyes. Just then, the shop doors swung open, and a stout woman emerged, her expression promising nothing good. Without a word, she kicked the food tray, sending jelly pieces scattering across the sidewalk.
“You tell them, and tell them again—it does no good!” she barked. “Don’t feed them here!” With that, she turned and stomped away. The cat, furtively glancing around, began gathering fragments from the pavement, while Mary, breathless with indignation, felt the first signs of an impending attack. She hurried to the bus stop—only there could she find a bench. Sitting down, she frantically searched her pockets, hoping to find her medication, but to no avail.
Pain surged mercilessly in waves, as if a vise was clamping down on her head, her vision darkening, a groan escaping from her chest. Someone touched her shoulder. Opening her eyes with difficulty, she saw a young girl staring at her fearfully.
“Are you okay, grandma? How can I help?”
“In the bag,” Mary weakly gestured. “There’s a coffee packet. Get it and open it.”
She clutched the packet, inhaling the roasted bean aroma once, twice. The pain didn’t vanish but lessened.
“Thank you, dear,” Mary said faintly.
“I’m Sarah—it was the cat you should thank,” the girl smiled. “She stayed with you and meowed so loudly!”
“Thank you too, my dear,” Mary petted the cat sitting beside her on the bench—the same tabby.
“What happened to you?” the girl asked with concern.
“An attack, dear, a migraine,” Mary confessed. “I got too anxious, it happens.”
“I’ll walk you home—it’ll be hard for you to manage alone.”
“… My grandma gets migraines too,” Sarah shared as they sipped milk-laced coffee and munched biscuits in Mary’s flat. “Actually, she’s my great-grandma, but I call her ‘Granny.’ She lives with my grandma, mum, and dad in a village. I study here at the nursing college, training to be a paramedic. Granny calls me ‘dear’ just like you do. And you look so much like her, I thought you were her at first! Haven’t you tried to find your own relatives, the real ones?”
“How could I, dear? I barely remember them. Not even my last name or where I was born,” Mary recounted, stroking the cat nestled in her lap. “I remember the bombings, traveling by cart, then the tanks… I ran, ran so hard I lost myself! Terrifying! Utterly terrifying for a lifetime! Then a woman took me in, I called her ‘mum’ forever, and she remains my mother now. After the war, her husband came back and became the best father in the world for me! All that’s left of my own is just my name. Most likely, my biological family perished under the bombs. Both my mum and Annie…”
Polly noticed Sarah flinch at these words, her eyes wide and blue.
“Mary, do you have a birthmark on your right shoulder shaped like a leaf?”
Mary nearly choked on her coffee, and the cat stared intently at her.
“How do you know that, dear?”
“My Granny has one just like it,” Sarah whispered. “Her name is Anna. She still tears up when she thinks of her twin sister, Mary. Lost under the bombings during the evacuation. When the road was cut off, they had to return home and lived through the occupation there. But Mary vanished. No matter how much they searched, they never found her…”
Mary couldn’t find peace since morning. She paced from window to door, anxiously awaiting guests. The grey-striped cat stuck by her side, gazing at her face with concern.
“Don’t worry, Daisy, I’m alright,” Mary reassured the cat. “It’s just that my heart is pounding…”
Finally, the doorbell rang. Nervously, Mary opened the door.
Two elderly women stood silently, gazing at each other with hopeful eyes. They seemed to see not only each other’s unwavering blue eyes, the silver curls of their hair, or the mournful wrinkles at the corners of their lips—but also a mirror image.
Finally, the guest exhaled in relief, smiled, stepped forward, and embraced Mary.
“Hello, Mary!”
And on the doorstep, wiping tears of joy, stood family.
