Homecoming
In the old house on the outskirts of the village of Maplebrook, tucked away among the forests of Somerset, the air smelled of dust and faint hope. Eleanor, jolting along in a rickety bus down a potholed road, felt her stomach churn. Dust clogged her lungs, and her heart ached with loneliness. Why had she even agreed to this? Living alone in a countryside cottage—especially in her condition—was sheer madness. But the decision had been made, and there was no turning back now.
Eleanor had been unwell for three years. Her last doctor’s visit had brought fragile hope: the treatment was working, but no one knew for how long. “With your diagnosis, nothing is predictable,” the doctor had said dryly. Eleanor didn’t argue. Life had lost its flavour long ago. She and her husband, Simon, had lived under the same roof but become strangers. When illness had taken hold of her, he’d drifted even further, as if already scouting for a replacement so he wouldn’t be left alone. Love had withered years ago, and Eleanor had accepted it.
But yesterday, something had changed everything. Exhausted, barely able to drag herself home from the hospital, she’d walked into their cramped flat to find a drunken mess. Simon, celebrating the start of his holiday, had dragged his entire work crew over. Thick cigarette smoke, raucous laughter, and the sour stench of beer clung to every corner. Eleanor had escaped to the park, wandering for hours, only to return and find empty bottles, scattered leftovers, and her husband snoring on the sofa. That evening, when he stirred, he reached for another drink. Eleanor tried to speak, but he cut her off with a growl:
“This is my flat, yeah? The factory gave it to *me*. I’ll drink if I want, and I’ll have who I want in here. You don’t get a say!”
*Who even am I here?* she thought, swallowing tears. Her job—modest and poorly paid—wasn’t worth clinging to. “Tomorrow, I’ll quit and leave,” she decided. “Back to the village, back to Dad’s old house. At least there, I’ll spend my days in peace, without drunken shouting.”
The house greeted her with the scent of aged oak and dried lavender. Memories tugged at her heart. Since her mother’s passing, she’d only been here once—for the funeral. But the place had clearly been looked after—likely by the neighbours. The key, just as in childhood, still lay beneath the loose floorboard on the porch. The lock creaked but gave way. Eleanor stepped inside, breathed in the dusty air, and whispered:
“Hello, old friend.”
The floorboards answered with a familiar groan, as if welcoming her back. She threw open the shutters, flooding the room with golden light, changed into something comfortable, and walked to the well for water. There, she was met by her neighbour, Margaret.
“Good heavens—Eleanor? Is that you?” the woman exclaimed, clasping her hands. “You’ve come back! My Jeffrey’s been keeping an eye on the place, all for nothing, was it? Well, better late than never! Come round for supper tonight, love—I’ve got a proper stew on!”
Eleanor scrubbed the windows, wiped away the dust, and polished the floors till they shone. The house seemed to sigh, warm and alive again. Weariness draped over her like a heavy cloak—her illness still had its claws in her. But she was determined to light the fireplace, banishing the damp. That evening, over simple food at Margaret’s, she shared her troubles, and the older woman listened, then shook her head.
“You did right, coming home. Maplebrook’s where you belong. And don’t go talking like you’re on death’s door—rubbish! There’s a spot at the post office if you fancy it. Little village, easy rounds. And you ought to see old Granny Hester—she’ll sort you out with proper remedies. Most ailments come from fretting, you know. And here? Peace and quiet, just what you need.”
Eleanor fell asleep smiling, warmed by her neighbour’s kindness. The next morning, she woke with an odd energy—a hunger to live, to *do* things, something she hadn’t felt in years. After breakfast, she headed to the post office to ask about the job. Extra money never hurt, and idleness didn’t suit her. As she walked through the village lanes, neighbours paused to wave and wish her well.
“Good morning!” she called back, feeling a lightness in her chest.
Summer slipped into autumn. Delivering letters became a quiet joy—taking her time, stopping for chats, drinking in the crisp, honeyed air. Eleanor found a calm she’d never known in the cityThe village had given her something the city never could—a place where she truly belonged.
