The battered old bus was stifling. Sweltering thirty-degree air poured through the open windows, bringing not relief but road dust instead. Passengers dozed, sluggish from the heat.
Ahead, the golden domes of a small chapel glinted, flanked by timber-framed cottages. Beyond them rose the upper floors of brick apartment blocks. The passengers stirred, gathering belongings. The quicker ones were already pushing toward the exit, eager to escape the suffocating air.
Only one woman remained motionless, staring out the window. Her hands, veined with blue, rested on her knees. Bleached hair, dark at the roots, hung in uneven strands around her thin, pallid face. Her lips drooped sorrowfully, and her thin eyelids were traced with fine wrinkles. She looked worn—like someone who had given up expecting anything good from life.
The bus lurched forward with a final groan, halting on the small square before the chapel. The crowd jostled impatiently, desperate to step into the open air.
“Miss, we’re here. Last stop,” called the balding, heavyset driver, peering over the partition.
The woman glanced around. The bus was empty but for her and the driver.
“Time to go,” he repeated.
She lifted a small bag from the floor, stood, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured at the open door, not looking back.
The doors hissed shut behind her, and she moved slowly toward the cottages. Suddenly, the chapel bell tolled, its deep peal fading into a light, melodic chime. She froze, lifting her face to the sky. Then she turned and walked toward the chapel.
A narrow path, lined with wildflowers, led her inside. Cool, incense-scented air washed over her. A shaft of evening sunlight pierced the dusty interior, painting the wooden floor with gold.
Her heels clicked against the floor, shattering the silence. She hesitated, then sank onto a bench near the door.
“Are you all right? Would you like some water?”
A young woman in a headscarf—despite the heat—appeared beside her, blue eyes filled with concern.
“Just a moment,” she said, vanishing before reappearing with a glass of water.
“Here. It’s from the spring nearby. Stays cold even in this weather.”
Emily took the glass, sipping the icy water so sharp it made her teeth ache.
“Let me know if you need anything,” the girl said, skirts rustling as she retreated behind a small wooden stall in the corner, stacked with prayer books and candles.
Emily drank the water and approached the stall, careful not to make noise.
“Thank you. Do you live here? Do you know everyone in the village?”
“It’s a small place,” the girl replied. “Who are you looking for?”
“Margaret… Whitmore. Do you know her?”
The girl stiffened. “She was my grandmother. She passed a year ago. Who are you?” She stepped out from behind the stall, studying the stranger intently.
“You’re Emily, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft. “I’m Sophie…”
***
Eighteen years earlier
Margaret sat on the bench outside her cottage, squinting against the setting sun.
“Mum,” a voice said.
She turned, shielding her eyes. Before her stood her daughter, Emily—gone for over a year. One arm cradled a swaddled baby; the other clutched a duffel bag.
“You came back… Knew it would end like this. Here for good, or just passing through?” Margaret’s tone was sharp.
A curtain twitched in the neighbor’s window. She pushed herself up stiffly.
“Inside. No need to give the gossips a show.”
Emily hesitated, then followed. She set the bag down, then carefully placed the sleeping child on the iron bedstead. Straightening, she exhaled in relief.
“Boy or girl?” Margaret asked flatly.
“A girl. Sophie.”
“Figures,” Margaret muttered. “Must’ve been rough out there if you’re crawling back. What’s the plan?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m exhausted.” Emily tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and sat beside the child.
“Fine. No rush. Got any milk in you?” Margaret’s gaze flicked to Emily’s hollowed frame. “Didn’t think so. I’ll fetch some from Nora—she keeps goats.”
“I brought formula,” Emily said quickly, relieved the initial storm had passed.
“None of that rubbish for my grandchild.” Margaret waved her off and headed to the kitchen nook.
She returned with a jar, avoiding Emily’s eyes as she left. When she came back, Emily was asleep beside the baby, who was fussing against the blanket. Margaret watched them—her wayward daughter, the child—until the baby began to cry.
“Hush now,” she murmured, lifting her. “Your mum’s right here. Dead to the world, though.”
She changed the nappy, warmed goat’s milk in a pot, and fed the baby, who settled quickly.
Half the night, mother and daughter argued in hissed whispers. Emily wept, begging for understanding; Margaret hurled every stored grievance. They slept only at dawn.
A sharp cry woke Margaret. She bolted up, finding Sophie wailing alone.
“Emily! See to your child! Wet, hungry—Emily!” No answer came but louder cries.
“Lord help me,” Margaret gasped, clutching her chest. “She’s gone. Left me with the baby. Selfish little—” A groan tore from her as she rocked in place. “Gone, just like that. Damn her!”
Sophie’s wails drowned her curses.
“Quiet!” Margaret snapped, and the child fell silent.
“That’s better. Screaming won’t bring her back.”
She changed the nappy, fed Sophie goat’s milk again.
“Good, eh? Proper milk, not that powdered junk. What am I supposed to do with you? God’s punishment, this is…”
Emily never returned. Sophie grew under Margaret’s stern hand—fed, clothed, but never coddled. Missteps earned harsh words, sometimes the back of a hand.
When Sophie asked about her mother, Margaret cut her off.
“Dead. No father either. You’ve got no one but me.” And she’d spin tales of her own looming death, warning Sophie of the loneliness to come.
Sophie would cling to her, begging her not to die.
“Then pray I live,” Margaret would say, crossing herself before the darkened icon on the shelf.
Once, she caught Sophie peering at an old photo. She snatched it, tossed it into the stove.
“You’ve no mother. No father. You’re alone.”
But one photo survived—blurred, hidden, secretly treasured.
Sophie finished school, defied Margaret’s orders to skip further education.
“Think you’ll leech off me forever?” Margaret grumbled, but relented.
Then she fell ill—coughing so violently she lost control. Sophie washed the sheets without complaint, woke nights to warm milk with honey. By spring, Margaret recovered.
But autumn stole her legs. She refused the hospital and died within weeks.
Sophie was alone. Potatoes in the cellar, jars of preserves. She’d manage.
Father Paul visited, crossing himself before the icon.
“Help me in the chapel,” he urged. “Old Bess is blind now. The village isn’t rich, but they’re generous.”
Sophie agreed. Weekdays for school, Sundays behind the candle stall, singing hymns, cleaning up.
Though she lived alone, the village boys kept their distance—mocking her as “the nun,” but never crossing the line. No one wanted trouble with Father Paul. Rumors said he’d seen combat before the clergy, carried the scars.
Sophie lived shielded by him—and by God.
She graduated, enrolled in nursing school—the only option in the village.
Once, she asked Father Paul: should she light a candle for her mother’s soul… or her health?
He pondered. “Margaret said she was dead. For her, maybe she was. But I think your mother’s alive—too afraid to return. Light it for her health. Pray she finds her way back.”
So Sophie did. Every Sunday. And waited.
***
“Wait—just a moment,” Sophie rushed about the chapel, snuffing candles, dimming lamps before the icons.
She locked the heavy door. They walked home in silence—Sophie unsure what to say, Emily too afraid to start.
“Sophie, you’ve got company?” a neighbor called.
Sophie nodded, hurrying past.
“That’s not—Emily’s back? But Margaret said she died,” someone muttered behind them.
“True?” Emily whispered.
Sophie nodded.
The cottage door creaked open.
“Come in. I’ve potatoes boiled, I’ll fry them up. Need milk too—”
“Wait.” Emily caught her wrist. “Let me look at you. You don’t look like me. Always in that scarf?”
“Only in chapel.” Sophie untied it, shaking out her hair.
“Don’t hide it. It’s lovely.” Emily’s voice wavered.Sophie reached out, clasping Emily’s trembling hands, and whispered, “You’re home now, Mum—and this time, you’re staying.”
