*The Calm Before the Storm*
In a godforsaken village where dusty streets stretched through endless fields, the air quivered with heat, like a violin string about to snap. Five days without rain had turned everything into a cracked, parched wasteland. The pavement breathed warmth, glowing like hot coals, and the silence hung so thick it felt like you could slice it with a knife. Everything grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the stench of burnt oil from the neighbour’s kitchen, the sharp clatter of a spoon dropped on the floor. Even a fly buzzing against the windowpane sounded like an alarm bell, as if sensing a storm no one else could yet feel.
Emily woke in the dead of night with the eerie sense that someone was standing beside her. Not a gaze, but a presence—heavy, almost tangible, like a shadow lurking in the corner. She lay perfectly still, straining to hear the quiet of her little flat. Stifling. She hadn’t opened the windows—nights in this village didn’t bring a cool breeze, just barking dogs, drunken murmurs, and the stale smell of cheap cigarettes. The air was thick, like an abandoned shed. Her skin burned from within, as if something unseen had been drying her out for years, like dust gathering in forgotten corners.
In the kitchen, the tap dripped. Emily sat up, listening. *Drip.* Silence. Then another *drip.* She got out of bed, her bare feet tiptoeing past the creaky floorboards, as though she didn’t want to wake someone—even though she knew she was alone. A shattered mug lay on the floor. Shards scattered like fresh cuts. Beside it, a puddle—not just drops, but a proper spill, as if someone had thrown a glass of water. Round, smooth, foreign. She froze. She lived alone. *Always* alone. But in that moment, her certainty splintered.
She flicked off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The sheets stuck to her skin, the pillow like a scorching stone. She tossed, searching for a breeze that wasn’t there. Something had settled inside her—not a voice, not a figure, just a shadow. As if someone stood there in silence, and that silence was louder than any words. It wasn’t fear. Just exhaustion, like a hairline crack slowly spreading across glass.
In the morning, she made soup. Set the pot to cool, wiped down the hob—not because it was dirty, but just to keep her hands busy. She sat by the window, pulling out an old notebook. Dog-eared, with a greasy stain on the cover and pages curled at the edges. Inside were scribbles—grocery lists, scraps of poems from her youth, recipes, dreams. There was even a shaky sketch of a steaming kettle from a decade 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, as if erasing a piece of herself. The ink smudged; the paper felt rough under her fingers, almost resisting.
She sat there a long while. Listening to the old fridge hum, the front door slam shut downstairs. Someone had come home. Not to her. Again. Footsteps on the stairs sounded fainter with every passing year. The world was moving on without so much as a glance back.
Emily went to the bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed, and straightened the blanket over John, her husband. He didn’t stir. His breathing was laboured, uneven—but familiar. She rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. So he still felt. Still alive. And she was still here. For now, that was enough.
She lay down beside him. Not to sleep. Just to be closer. To breathe in sync, if only for a little while. Just this evening. Just this fragile silence between them.
A few days later, she worked up the nerve to call her daughter. Paced the kitchen, rearranged the dishes, wiped down the already-clean sink. Stared at the phone like it was a grenade. Finally dialled, fingers trembling, dreading the cold rush of disinterest on the other end.
*”Mum? What’s wrong?”*
*”Nothing, love. Just wanted to hear your voice.”*
*”Mum, I’m swamped. I’ll call you back, yeah?”*
*”Of course, darling. Of course.”*
Her chest tightened, but she kept her voice steady. After the call, she sat, face buried in her hands. Then she got up and put the kettle on, as if boiling water could somehow fill the quiet.
But her daughter rang back. Three hours later. No small talk.
*”Mum, you alright?”*
And Emily cried. Not from pain. Because someone had asked. Just that—*”You alright?”*—and suddenly she realised how much she’d missed those words.
A week later, a kitten appeared in the house. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, trembling, with ears too big and eyes full of wonder.
*”Gran, this is for you. So you’re not lonely. He’s scared, and you’re on your own. You’ll suit each other.”*
Emily cradled the kitten like fine china. And then, warmth spread through her chest—as if someone had loosened a knot she’d carried for years.
The kitten was ginger, long-legged, with a face that always looked faintly surprised. The first night, he hid under a chair. By morning, he was curled on her blanket, pressed against her feet. They named him Marmalade. Never mind that he was a tomcat. Just—Marmalade. Warm, soft, always there. His purr was loud enough to fill the whole house, as if hell-bent on chasing out the silence. In that sound, there was something alive. Something real.
Now, in the mornings, Emily speaks again. First to Marmalade—*”Sleep well? Your bowl’s by the window.”* Then to John—reading the news, grumbling about his tossed-aside socks. Then to herself—no longer a whisper, but out loud. Like she’s checking if her voice still exists. And then—to the ones who do come by. Whoever they are. The neighbour. The postman. The shadow in the window.
She never did fix the phone. Doesn’t need to. Real words don’t get lost in the rush. They live in the pauses, the glances, the touch of a hand. And in the small, warm weight that curls up beside you in the morning, just when you need it most.
