**Under a Grey Sky**
Alice sorted through her things, listing them on Gumtree. Not out of necessity—she was simply tired of seeing them every day. Each object held a memory. Of people who’d slipped from her life. Of moments that had melted like snow in her palm. Of the person she used to be. An old turtleneck jumper no one wore. A coat with a frayed elbow. A frying pan, gifted for her birthday and never used. They cluttered the wardrobes, the corners, even the air in her flat.
She photographed them near the window—the light there was kinder than outside. Neatly hung on hangers, smoothed the creases, even pulled out the iron on occasion. As if her effort decided whether they’d find a new home or end up in a skip. She hoped someone scrolling through ads might pause and think, *That’s mine. I need that.*
One evening, a man messaged her. His words were blunt, no pleasantries: *”Still got the jumper?”* It was late—nearly eleven. As if he’d hesitated, then written in haste, like it was his last chance.
She replied, *”Yes, still here.”* He asked for the address and added, *”Be there soon.”* No haggling, no questions—just a curt *”Wait for me.”*
Alice barely had time to clear the dinner plates. When the buzzer rang, her hands still smelled of onions. She wiped them on a tea towel, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slipped on a cardigan, and opened the door.
A man in his fifties stood there, wearing a faded jacket with weary eyes. His gaze didn’t meet hers but clung to something unseen—a word, a warmth, a thing long lost.
*”Good evening. I’m here for the jumper. The dark green one, with the pattern.”*
*”Come in, I’ll fetch it. It’s in the other room,”* she said, stepping back.
He lingered on the threshold, as if crossing an invisible line took courage.
*”Cosy place you’ve got. Warm. My boiler’s been rubbish all winter. Keep meaning to fix it, never find the time.”*
*”Bit of a nightmare, isn’t it?”* she replied, moving toward the bedroom. *”Had to buy a space heater last year—else I’d freeze.”*
She returned with two jumpers—green and another, navy blue.
*”Here, have a look. Maybe this one’ll do? Wool’s soft, hardly worn.”*
He tried them on over his coat. Stared at his reflection without speaking. Then, voice low, nearly a whisper:
*”My wife used to pick these. Never got the hang of it myself. Without her… none of it feels right.”*
Alice nodded, asking nothing. Just adjusted the collar of the navy jumper so it sat better.
*”Which’ll you take?”*
*”Both, if that’s alright. One for me. The other—for a mate. His house burned down. Whole family’s in B&Bs now. Kids haven’t even got proper coats. We’re all pooling what we can.”*
She nearly said, *Take them for free.* But he was already digging into his pocket, crumpled notes in hand—as if he’d guessed her thoughts and raced to stop them.
*”How much?”*
She named a price lower than the listing. He passed over the creased tenners, eyes down. His hands were rough, cracked—the kind that work in wind and cold.
*”Ta.”*
*”Hope they keep you warm,”* she murmured.
He nodded but didn’t move. Stared at the floor, then suddenly looked up.
*”You know… sounds daft, but—your place feels… right. Like someone’s waiting. Like there’s still somewhere to come back to.”*
Alice froze. Then, without thinking:
*”Tea? Just made a pot. Earl Grey, bit of honey. Strong, but warm.”*
He hesitated, then nodded.
*”If you’ve got lemon. And if I’m not intruding.”*
They sat at her small kitchen table. He spoke in fragments—his mate’s burnt house, the warehouse job where the chill seeped into your bones, hunting for warm clothes because winter didn’t wait. Alice listened, realising how long it’d been since someone sat with her, unhurried. No glancing at phones, no waiting to interrupt. Just sharing the tea, the evening, the quiet warmth.
She refilled his cup, stirred in honey, asked small questions. He answered with a note of surprise, as if he’d forgotten what it was like for someone to care. Between sips, between words, the silence wasn’t heavy—it breathed, alive and gentle.
An hour later, he stood. Slowly, like disturbing something fragile. At the door, he said:
*”Cheers. Not just for the jumpers. For… this.”*
Alice stayed at the table. Finished her cooling tea. Then walked to the bedroom. On the chair lay a third jumper—grey, the oldest. It smelled of the past, of someone else who’d known how to listen. She ran her fingers over the worn wool and tucked it back into the wardrobe.
She didn’t want to sell it anymore.
*Lesson: Sometimes what we think is clutter is just love waiting to be passed on.*
