The rain lashed down in sheets, turning the cobbled streets of Manchester into silver rivers.
“Miss, you dropped your phone! Wait!” shouted a stranger, his voice carrying over the storm’s roar.
Eleanor wandered the empty lanes, numb to the icy rivulets tracing her cheeks, mingling with tears. She turned, staring at the man with hollow indifference, her brow tightening.
“Is this yours?” he asked, holding out a drenched phone, its screen spiderwebbed with cracks.
“Mine…” she whispered, her voice thin with cold and grief.
“Why are you out in this? No coat, no umbrella—you’ll catch your death!” Genuine worry edged his words.
He didn’t seem the pushy sort, and Eleanor, moved by some quiet impulse, followed him under the awning of a nearby shop. They ducked into a corner café, steam from their tea curling between them.
“I’m Thomas,” he said, offering a faint smile. “And you?”
“Eleanor,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.
“What brings you out in weather like this? Even strays find shelter in a downpour.”
“I… I was thrown out. Like a stray,” she choked out, the words trembling like her hands.
The memories surged like a tide. Her chest ached with the weight she’d fought to bury. Eleanor never imagined her carefully built life could shatter so fast. She and Simon had weathered everything—bought a cottage outside Manchester, opened a little bookshop, dreamed of children. She’d lost herself in work, climbing ladders, forgetting to breathe. And today, Simon had raised his hand. She grabbed her coat and ran into the freezing rain.
All she had—her passport, a bank card, and the ruined phone clutched in her palm.
“This won’t last much longer,” Thomas remarked, nodding at the device.
It hit her then—nowhere to go. A strange city, no friends, no family. She was adrift, hollow. The tears came fast, scalding, the first she’d allowed herself in years.
“Crying over a phone? I can fix it,” he offered gently.
“Why do you care? We’re strangers!” Her voice cracked, more desperation than anger.
“Not angry. Just… saw you, knew something was wrong. Wanted to help.”
Eleanor drew a shaky breath, then told him everything—the twelve years since she’d left Leeds, the parents she barely spoke to, the hours poured into the shop, into Simon, into dreams that curdled.
“He came home in a rage. I asked him to eat—he screamed about the wine. I hadn’t bought it. He drinks too much. I stayed quiet, but he—” Her fingers brushed her ribs. “It hurts to breathe.”
Thomas sighed. “My cousin lived like that. I know how it feels. Let me help.”
“Why bother?” she muttered. “I’ll stay with a friend a few days. He’ll call. He always does.”
“Your phone’s dead.”
“Then I’ll go back and apologise,” she said bitterly. “What else is there?”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” he murmured. “Time to change. Start over.”
The idea flickered—foreign, terrifying. Too much lost, too much wasted. But under the rain’s steady hum, his words sounded like a lifeline.
“Let me take you somewhere safe. Stay as long as you need. I’ll fix the phone, bring it back. Then… you choose. Alright?”
“Thank you,” she breathed, the weight on her shoulders easing, just a little.
For the first time in years, someone else carried the burden. She deserved this—a pause, a breath, after running so long.
