**Coming Home**
The old house on the edge of the village, tucked away in the green folds of the Yorkshire countryside, carried the scent of dust and quiet hope. Eleanor swayed in the rattling bus as it bumped along the potholed lane, her stomach twisting with every jolt. The air was thick with summer pollen, and her chest tightened with a familiar ache. What had possessed her to return? Living alone in a crumbling cottage, especially now, was pure folly. But the decision had been made—there was no turning back.
Eleanor had been ill for three years. The last doctor’s visit had offered a sliver of hope—treatment was working, but for how long? “With your condition, anything’s possible,” the physician had said briskly. She hadn’t argued. Life had lost its savour long ago. Her husband, Thomas, had become a stranger under their own roof, and when illness swallowed her days, he withdrew completely, as if already seeking a replacement to avoid solitude. Love had withered years ago, and Eleanor had made peace with it.
But yesterday had snapped the last thread. Returning from the clinic, weak-kneed and hollow, she’d found their cramped flat thrumming with drunken laughter. Thomas, celebrating the start of his holiday, had dragged in his entire crew from the factory. The flat reeked of stale beer and smoke, the air thick with slurred chatter. Eleanor had slipped out to wander the park for hours, but upon returning, she found only empty bottles, discarded crisps packets, and Thomas snoring on the sofa.
That evening, when he lurched awake and reached for another pint, she tried to speak. His response was a snarl:
“This is *my* place, got it? The factory gave it to me. If I want to drink, I drink. If I want a party, I’ll have one. You’re just passing through.”
*Who am I here?* she had wondered, swallowing tears. Her own job—modest, underpaid—wasn’t worth clinging to. “Tomorrow I’ll quit,” she decided. “I’ll go back to the cottage. At least there, I can drift into silence, away from this noise.”
The cottage greeted her with the scent of aged oak and dried lavender. The pang of memory was sharp. Since her mother’s passing, she’d only returned once—for the funeral. But the place was tidy, thanks to the neighbours. The spare key still hid beneath the loose stone by the step. The lock groaned but yielded. Stepping inside, she inhaled the dusty air and whispered,
“Hello, home.”
The floorboards creaked in reply. She threw open the shutters, letting sunlight spill in, then changed into old clothes and trudged to the well for water. There, she met old Mrs. Whitlow from next door.
“Eleanor? Is that you?” The woman clasped her hands together. “You’ve come back! My Henry’s kept the garden trimmed—thought someone ought to. Good on you, love. Come round tonight for supper, won’t you?”
Eleanor scrubbed the windows, swept the dust, polished the floors until they gleamed. The cottage breathed again, warm and alive. Exhaustion weighed on her—the illness never let her forget—but she stoked the hearth to chase the damp away. That evening, over a simple meal of stew and bread, she shared her troubles. Mrs. Whitlow listened, then shook her head.
“You did right coming back. This is your place. And don’t go talking about dying—nonsense! The post office could use a hand. Small village, easy work. You’ll walk about, chin up. And see old Margery down the lane—she’ll sort you with herbs. Half our ailments come from fretting, you know. Here, it’s peace itself.”
Eleanor fell asleep smiling. Come morning, an odd energy stirred in her—something forgotten, something like the will to live. After breakfast, she walked into the village to ask after the post office job. A bit of money never hurt, and idleness wouldn’t suit her. Neighbours waved as she passed, each stopping to wish her well.
“Good morning!” she called back, heart light.
Summer faded into autumn. Delivering post became a quiet joy—wandering the lanes, sharing words over garden gates. The crisp Yorkshire air filled her lungs. Eleanor found a calm she’d lost in the city. Her cheeks ruddy, her skin freckled from the sun. Margery’s herbal brews worked wonders: she slept deeply, ate heartily, and the fatigue loosened its grip.
The illness left her. Eleanor spent years in that village, wrapped in the warmth of old stone and kinder souls. Happiness, it turned out, didn’t demand much—just stillness, the embrace of familiar walls, and knowing you belonged. And the sickness? It *had* been from the nerves, like all misfortune.
