She never heard from him.
Yesterday morning Elsie turned her mobile up to the loudest setting, just in case. Deep down she knew he would not write back. The feeling was like the foretaste of raina slow, inevitable pressure, as if the air itself thickened before a storm. Still, she pressed the volume button. Hope, she thought, was like an old scar: it hurts, but it doesnt let go.
She gathered her hair into a loose knot, arranging it with a careless elegance that still looked tidy. She slipped on the darkgreen coat he had once praised, saying she resembled an autumn wood. She had barely worn it since, but today she retrieved it from the back of the wardrobe. She painted her lips a vivid redfar too bright for a morning stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was bustling. A man coughed hoarsely in the corner, a couple bickered over the price of tablets, and another stood silently, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The air smelled of herbal tinctures and something acrid, the unmistakable scent of a medical shop. Elsie picked up the bottle of vitamins he had recommended three years earlier, when they still shared coffee at sunrise. She held the pack, squinting at the tiny print. The expiry date read use before next autumn, as if the little box kept its own countdown.
The bakery was as it always was: a lad with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, the warm aroma of fresh bread and cinnamon, a battered speaker playing soft tunes. Elsie bought a raspberry croissantthe very one he had once called the taste of morning while wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for tea at home, as she had done when life was simpler. The otherjust because. A tiny fragment of the past she could slip into her pocket.
When she returned home she stopped dead. The flat was hushed, heavy as dust settled on the old books lining the shelves. The air seemed still, as if it feared to move. Her phone lay on the windowsill, screen face down, as though ashamed to meet her gaze. No messages. No missed calls. It was as if the world had decided to pass by without noticing her, and she had become a shadow melting into the gray morning light.
Elsie set the kettle on, slipped off her coat slowly, as though afraid to disturb the silence. She placed her shoes neatly by the door, straightened the coat hanger, and turned on the ancient radio. The announcer talked about traffic jams, then a fresh snowfall, then an exhibition at the local museum, all in that muffled tone you hear when the sound is filtered through water. She took a sip of teascalding, burning her tonguebut swallowed without a wince. She moved to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Outside, fine, prickly snow fell, coating umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, only to melt away moments later. A young father in a dark overcoat adjusted his sons hat with a tenderness that only years can teach. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had fused after decades. Some hurried, slipping on the icy pavement; others laughed, eyes glued to their phones; a few lingered before shop windows glittering with Christmas lights. Life streamed onwardnoisy, vibrant, indifferentpassing her like a train that departs while she stands on the platform, unable to board.
He never wrote.
Yet she swept the floor with a broom, though there was hardly any dust. She called Aunt Margaret, listening to her chatter about the garden gnome, the new neighbour, a fresh recipe for Victoria sponge. She watered the old cactus in the kitchen, checking carefully that it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctor’s appointmenta small task she had postponed for months. She went over the receipts, confirming everything was paid, and marked a tick in her diary. She washed the woollen blanket, adding a touch more fabric softener so the house would smell warm and livedin.
In the evening she lit a lamp in every room, not because she feared the dark, but because the house seemed to come aliveits windows glowing, reflected in the wet pavement, as if whispering, Someone is here. Life remains.
Elsie stared at her own reflection in the glass and thought, He never wrote. But I am still here. Not an excuse, not a challenge, just a quiet truth. Like a candle lit for oneself rather than for anyone else, a reminder that she still existed.
