Under a chilly grey sky, Eleanor sorted through her belongings to list on eBay. Not out of necessity—she simply tired of seeing them every day. These objects held memories. Of people who’d vanished from her life. Of times that had melted away like snowflakes on skin. Of the person she used to be. A worn knit jumper with a high collar, unworn for years. A coat with an elbow rubbed thin. A frying pan, gifted for her birthday and never used. They filled her cupboards, her corners, the very air of her flat.
She photographed them by the window—the light there was gentler than outside. Carefully, she hung them on hangers, smoothed the creases, even ironed a few. As though her effort might decide whether they found a new home or ended up in a bin. She hoped someone scrolling through listings might pause and whisper, “This is meant for me.”
One evening, a man messaged her. Brief, to the point: “Still got the jumper?” It was late, nearly eleven. As if he’d hesitated all night before typing, as if this were his last chance.
She replied: “Yes, still here.” He asked for her address, adding only, “Be there soon.” No haggling, no small talk—just a quiet determination.
Eleanor barely had time to clear the supper dishes. When the buzzer rang, her hands still smelled of onions. She wiped them on her apron, tucked back a loose strand of hair, slipped on a cardigan, and opened the door.
On the step stood a man in his fifties, his jacket faded, his eyes weary. His gaze didn’t quite meet hers—it clung instead to something unseen, a word, a warmth, something long lost.
“Evening. I’m here for the jumper. The dark green one, with the pattern.”
“Come in, I’ll fetch it. It’s just in the other room,” she said, stepping aside.
He lingered at the threshold, as though unwilling to cross an invisible line.
“Cosy in here. Warm. My flat’s freezing—radiators barely work. Keep meaning to fix them, never get round to it.”
“Heating’s a nightmare,” she agreed, disappearing into the room. “I bought a space heater last winter. Wouldn’t survive without it.”
She returned with two jumpers—the green one and another, a deep blue.
“Here, have a look. Maybe this one too? It’s warm, barely worn. Doesn’t itch.”
He tried them on over his coat, studying himself in the mirror. Then, barely above a whisper:
“My wife used to pick these. I don’t know how. Without her… nothing feels right. Everything’s just… borrowed.”
Eleanor nodded, asking nothing. She only adjusted the blue jumper’s collar so it lay smooth.
“Which one would you like?”
“Both, if that’s alright. One for me. The other for a mate. Lost everything in a fire—him, his family. Kids haven’t even got coats now. We’re all chipping in where we can.”
She nearly said, “Take them for free,” but he was already pulling crumpled notes from his pocket, as though he’d guessed her words and hurried to stop them.
“How much?”
She quoted less than the listed price. He handed over the money, eyes down. His hands were rough, cracked—the hands of someone who worked in wind and cold.
“Ta.”
“Hope they keep you warm,” she murmured.
He nodded but didn’t move. Stared at the floor, then suddenly met her eyes.
“Funny, this. Sounds daft, but… your place feels peaceful. Like a proper home. Like someone’s waiting. Like there’s still somewhere to come back to.”
Eleanor stilled. Then, surprising herself:
“Fancy a cuppa? Just brewed some. Earl Grey, bit of honey. Strong, but warm.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“If there’s a lemon slice. And if I’m not intruding.”
They sat at her small kitchen table. He spoke haltingly, leaping from one thought to another—about his friend’s burnt house, about the warehouse job where the cold seeps into your bones, about hunting for warm clothes because winter won’t wait. Eleanor listened, realising how long it had been since she’d spoken to someone unhurried, who didn’t glance at their phone or wait for a chance to leave. Someone who simply shared the evening, the tea, this small pocket of warmth.
She refilled his cup, stirred in honey, asked simple questions. He answered with something like wonder, as if he’d forgotten what it was like—to have someone care about his day. Between sips, between words, a silence settled—not heavy, but alive, warm as breath.
An hour later, he stood slowly, as though afraid to break something fragile. At the door, he said:
“Cheers. Not just for the jumpers. For… this.”
Eleanor stayed at the table, finishing her tea as the cup cooled. Then she walked to the other room. On the chair lay a third jumper—grey, the oldest of them all. It smelled of the past, of someone who’d also known how to listen. She picked it up, ran her fingers over the soft wool, and tucked it back into the cupboard.
She didn’t want to sell it anymore.
Sometimes, what we carry isn’t just what we own—but what we’re willing to let go. And what we choose to keep.
