**The Calm Before the Storm**
In a godforsaken village where dusty streets stretched endlessly between barren fields, the air quivered with heat like a taut string ready to snap. Five days without rain had baked the land into a parched, cracked desert. The asphalt breathed like hot coals, and the silence was so thick it could’ve been cut with a knife. Everything grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the stench of burnt grease from a neighbor’s kitchen, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. Even the fly buzzing against the windowpane sounded like a warning bell, as if sensing the storm before the people did.
Margaret woke in the dead of night with the unshakable feeling someone stood beside her. Not a shadow, not a figure, but something *there*—a presence so heavy it pressed against her skin. She lay stiff, listening to the silence of her little flat. The air was stifling. She hadn’t opened the windows—nights here brought no relief, only the distant bark of dogs, drunken chatter, and the reek of cheap cigarettes. The room felt like a boarded-up shed, thick with the weight of something unseen, something that had settled into the walls like dust over the years.
A drip from the kitchen tap pulled her focus. *Plink.* Silence. *Plink.* She rose, bare feet avoiding the creaky floorboards, though she knew she was alone. A broken cup lay on the tiles. Shards sharp as fresh wounds. A puddle spread beside it—not drops, but a whole spill, neat and round, like someone had poured it deliberately. Margaret froze. She *lived* alone. Always had. But for the first time, she wasn’t sure.
She flicked off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The sheets clung, the pillow burned. She twisted, hunting for a breeze that wasn’t there. Inside her, something stirred—not a voice, not a shape, but a silence louder than words. It didn’t frighten her. It *wore* on her, like a hairline crack slowly splitting glass.
Morning came. She cooked stew, wiped the counter just to keep her hands busy, then sat by the window with an old notebook. Frayed at the edges, lined paper stained with tea rings and ink blots. Shopping lists, scraps of poetry, recipes, dreams. Even a shaky sketch of a teapot from years ago. Today, she turned to a blank page and wrote: *No one comes. No one asks. But I’m still here.*
Then she crossed it out. Slowly, deliberately, as if erasing a piece of herself. The ink bled, the paper rough under her fingers like it resisted.
Hours passed. The hum of the fridge. The slam of the front door downstairs. Footsteps fading up the stairwell—never for her. Always past. The world moved on without looking back.
She wandered to the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed. Adjusted the blanket over her husband, William. He didn’t stir. His breathing was labored, uneven, but familiar. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. Still here, then. Still *them*. And as long as there was an “us,” there was still a reason.
She lay beside him. Not to sleep. Just to be close. To breathe in time, if only for tonight. If only in this fragile quiet.
Days later, she mustered the courage to call her daughter. Paced the kitchen. Wiped the already-clean sink. Stared at the phone like it might detonate. Finally dialed, fingers trembling, bracing for the curtness, the impatience.
“Mum? Everything alright?”
“Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Swamped right now—I’ll ring you back, yeah?”
“Of course, love. Of course.”
Her chest ached, but her voice stayed steady. After the call, she pressed her palms to her face, then filled the kettle like boiling water could drown the hollowness.
But the phone rang three hours later, no preamble.
“Mum. How *are* you?”
And Margaret wept. Not from pain. From being *asked*. Just that. And suddenly, she realized how starved she’d been for those two words. *How are you?*
A week later, a kitten arrived. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, trembling, with ears too big and eyes full of wonder.
“Gran, he’s for you. So you’re not lonely. He’s scared; you’re alone. You’ll suit each other.”
Margaret cradled him like porcelain. And then—warmth, spreading through her chest, as if an old, tangled knot had come loose.
The kitten was ginger, long-legged, with a face perpetually surprised by the world. The first night, he hid under a chair. By morning, he was curled on her shawl by her feet. They named him Biscuit. Didn’t matter that he was a cat. Just *Biscuit*. Because he was sweet, warm, and always near. His purr rumbled like he meant to fill every silence in the house—something alive, something *real*.
Now Margaret talks in the mornings. First to Biscuit—*Did you sleep well? Your bowl’s by the window.* Then to William—reading the news, grumbling about his scattered socks. Then to herself, aloud, testing if her voice still works. And sometimes—to the ones who *do* come. Who ask. The neighbor. The postman. Even the shadow in the window.
She never fixed the phone. Didn’t need to. Real words don’t drown in noise. They live in pauses, in glances, in the weight of a small, warm body pressing against you at dawn, when you need it most.
