Yesterday morning Mabel Harper cranked her phone to the loudest setting, just in case. Deep down she knew he would never write back. The feeling settled over her like the first hint of rainthick and inevitable, as if the air itself were gathering before a storm. Still she left the volume up. Hope, she thought, was like an old scar: it aches, yet it refuses to let go.
She tucked her hair into a careless bun, enough polish to look natural but still pretty. Over her shoulders she slipped on the dark green coat he had once told her reminded him of an autumn wood. She had hardly worn it since that day, but today she pulled it from the wardrobe. She painted her lips a bold scarletfar too vivid for a modest stroll to the chemist and the bakery.
The chemist was bustling. A cough rasped in a corner, a quarrel over the price of medicines rose and fell, and a man stood trembling on one foot, his breath shallow. The scent of dried herbs and something acrid, decidedly medical, filled the air. Mabel reached for the vitamins he had recommended three years earlier, back when they still shared morning coffee. She held the packet, squinting at the tiny print. The bestby date read until next autumn, as if even the pills counted down the remaining months of their own time.
At the bakery on Oxford Street everything was as it always was: a young man with a tattoo on his wrist behind the counter, the warm smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, a battered speaker humming soft music. She bought a raspberry croissantthe very one he had once called the taste of morning with a grin, wiping crumbs from his chin. She took two. One for the tea she would brew at home, as she used to when life was simpler. The other, just because; a tiny fragment of the past she could slip into her pocket.
When she returned home she stopped dead. The flat was hushedheavy as dust settled on the old books lining the shelves. The air lay still, as though it feared moving at all. The phone rested on the windowsill, screen face down, as if ashamed of her gaze. No messages. No missed calls. It seemed the world had walked past without noticing her, and she felt herself become a shadow fading into the grey morning light.
She set the kettle on, slipped off the coat slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence. She placed her shoes neatly by the door, adjusted the collar on the coat rack. She turned on the ancient radio; the announcers voice droned about traffic jams, then a fresh snowfall, then an exhibition at the local museum. All sounded muffled, as if heard through water. She took a sip of teascalding, burningbut swallowed without a wince. She moved to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold pane.
Outside, snow fell in fine, needlelike flakes, coating umbrellas, scarves, the pavement, then melting away almost immediately. A young father in a dark park adjusted his son’s hat with the gentle care that only years can teach. Elderly couples shuffled along, leaning on each other as if their hands had grown together over decades. Some hurried, slipping on the icy pavement; others laughed, eyes glued to their phones; a few lingered before a shop window glittering with Christmas lights. Life streamed onwardnoisy, alive, indifferentpassing her by like a train that had already left the platform while she stood, hesitant to board.
He didnt write.
Nevertheless, Mabel swept the floor with a small broom, though little dust lay there. She called her aunt, listening to tales of the country cottage, the new neighbour, a fresh pie recipe. She watered the ancient cactus, checking carefully that it hadnt turned yellow. She booked a doctors appointmenta trivial thing she had postponed for months. She reviewed the bills, confirming everything was paid, and ticked the box in her diary. She laundered the old blanket, adding a little extra scent so the house would smell warm and livedin.
In the evening she lit a lamp in every room, not because she feared darkness but because the house seemed alive with lightits windows glowing, reflecting off the damp pavement, as if whispering, Someone is here. Life persists.
Mabel stared at her own reflection in the glass and thought, He didnt write. But I am. Not an excuse, not a challenge, merely a quiet truth. Like a candle lit not for anyone else but herself, to remember: I am still here.
