**Homecoming**
The old house on the edge of the village, tucked away in the quiet countryside of Yorkshire, smelled of dust and faint hope. Eleanor trembled in the rattling bus as it bumped along the uneven road, her stomach twisting with each jolt. The dust clung to her lungs, and her chest ached with sorrow. Why had she even decided to do this? Living alone in a village cottage, especially in her condition—it was madness. But the decision was made, and there was no turning back.
Eleanor had been unwell for three years. The last doctor’s visit had offered only a sliver of hope—treatment was helping, but no one could say for certain if it would last. “With your diagnosis, nothing is predictable,” the doctor had said briskly. Eleanor didn’t argue. Life had long since lost its flavor. She and her husband, William, shared a roof, but they had become strangers. When illness took hold of her, he withdrew completely, as if already searching for someone new—anything to avoid being left alone. Love had died long ago, and Eleanor had accepted it.
But yesterday had changed everything. Returning from the hospital, exhausted and barely able to walk, she found their small flat filled with rowdy laughter and the stench of beer and cigarettes. William, celebrating the start of his holiday, had brought his entire crew home. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol. Eleanor slipped away to the park, wandering for hours, only to return to overturned chairs, empty bottles, and her husband snoring on the couch. That evening, he stirred, reaching for another pint before slurring,
“This is my place, got it? The factory gave it to me. I’ll drink if I want, I’ll have people over if I want. You don’t call the shots here.”
“Who am I here?” Eleanor thought, swallowing tears. Her job, modest and poorly paid, wasn’t worth clinging to. “I’ll quit tomorrow,” she decided. “And go home—to the village, to my parents’ house. At least I’ll spend my days in peace, without drunken shouting.”
The cottage welcomed her with the scent of aged wood and dried lavender. Her heart ached with memories. Since her mother’s death, she’d only been back once, for the funeral. But the house looked cared for—the neighbors must have kept an eye on it. The key, just as in childhood, lay beneath the loose floorboard near the door. The lock groaned but yielded. Eleanor stepped inside, breathing in the dusty air, and whispered,
“Hello, home.”
The floorboards creaked in reply, as though greeting their mistress. She threw open the shutters, letting in the golden sunlight, and changed into something more worn before walking to the well for water. There, she was met by her neighbor, Agatha.
“Eleanor? Is that really you?” the woman exclaimed. “You’ve come back! My Ted’s been keeping an eye on the place—knew it’d be worth it. It’s good you’re here. Come round for supper tonight!”
Eleanor scrubbed the windows, dusted the shelves, and polished the floors until they gleamed. The house stirred to life, warmth filling its bones. Exhaustion settled over her—her illness a quiet, unwelcome shadow. But she decided to light the old fireplace anyway, banishing the damp. That evening, over a simple meal at Agatha’s, she shared her troubles. Agatha listened, then shook her head.
“You did right coming back. This is where you belong. And as for counting your days—rubbish! The post office needs a postmistress—small wage, but enough. The village is tiny; you’ll enjoy the walks. And go see old Maggie Turner—she’ll give you herbs. Half the ailments folks have come from nerves, you know. Here, at least, there’s peace.”
Eleanor fell asleep smiling, thinking of the kindness around her. By morning, an unfamiliar energy sparked in her—an urge to live, to move, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in years. After breakfast, she set off for the post office. A bit of coin never hurt, and idleness didn’t suit her. Walking the village lanes, she caught the nods and smiles of neighbors, each stopping to wish her well.
“Good morning!” she answered, warmth blooming in her chest.
Summer faded into autumn. Delivering letters became a quiet joy—a slow stroll through the village, stopping in at each home, exchanging a word or two. The air, crisp and clean, filled her lungs. Eleanor found a peace she’d never known in the city. Her cheeks grew rosy; her face fresh as a ripe pear. The herbal remedies old Maggie gave her helped—Eleanor slept soundly, ate with relish, and the weakness ebbed away.
The illness let go. Eleanor lived many more years in that village, wrapped in the warmth of home and kind faces. Happiness, it turned out, didn’t demand much—just peace in the soul, the comfort of old walls, and the knowledge that you were wanted. And the sickness? Perhaps Agatha was right. Maybe it had been nerves all along—like most troubles.
