The Woman in Scarlet
On a chilly morning in the quaint town of Woodbury, where the wind chased fallen leaves across the platform, I spotted her at the Northgate Station. She stood at the very edge, as if already detached from this world—wrapped in a scarlet coat that fluttered in the subway draft, her hair loosely tied back, and white earbuds that seemed to emit silence rather than music. There was no anticipation of a train in her posture, only a deep, frozen sorrow—as though she knew something the rest of us didn’t, and was simply waiting for time to catch up with her pain. Her gaze stretched far beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some invisible distance of her inner world, a place no one else could reach.
I thought of letters never sent, of melodies that only play in memory. She seemed like someone still holding a ghost’s hand—a spectre of the past refusing to let go.
I missed my train that day.
She boarded the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Everything was nearly identical: the same station, the same early hour, the same cold glow of the overhead lights. She stood in that scarlet coat as if it weren’t just clothing but a second skin—a shield against the world. And again, she was distant, teetering between reality and dream. This time, she held a white lily, a lone flower tied with a thin ribbon. It wasn’t just decoration—it felt like a symbol of something deeper: loss, farewell, peace. I thought of tragedy, of anniversaries, of grief too heavy for words. The lily wasn’t love; it was acceptance of something irreversible.
I stepped closer this time. My heart pounded as if sensing this moment might change everything.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped your ticket.”
I knew it was a lie. But I needed her to speak. Or at least to notice me.
She turned slowly, as if emerging from another world. Her eyes met mine, but they were empty—as if she wasn’t seeing me, but the shadow of something long gone. She gave the faintest nod. Her gaze held the clarity of a lake and the weight of a stone. As if she carried a burden no one could share. Then the train doors closed, and she vanished into the tunnel, leaving behind only the faintest trace of lilies—sharp and bittersweet, like memory itself.
I started riding the Tube without purpose. Changing lines, stations, times—all for another glimpse of her. Sometimes I caught her eye; other times, just a fleeting silhouette through a window. Sometimes, only the empty spot where she should’ve stood. But I kept returning, like a pilgrim, following a feeling I couldn’t explain.
A month later, I finally worked up the nerve:
“Excuse me, we keep crossing paths… Fancy a cuppa?”
She smiled—so quietly it seemed like she was testing if she still remembered how.
“I don’t drink coffee—bad for my heart. But tea? Yes, alright.”
We slipped into a little tea shop near the station, where the air was thick with ginger and honey. Time moved slowly there, like syrup. I learned her name was Evelyn. That she’d been a singer but left the stage three years ago—“after what happened.” I didn’t ask. She told me herself a week later, when I brought her chamomile tea and a slice of Victoria sponge.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. Just… didn’t wake up one morning. I was preparing for a big role at the opera. And then I realised—what’s the point of it all, if I can’t bring back the mornings when he’d shake me awake, begging me to put on his favourite cartoon?”
I stayed silent. Not for lack of words, but because any words would’ve been too much. She gazed out the window and whispered, “If you stay quiet long enough, you can hear the city hold its breath.”
We met often after that, with no plans or promises. Walked the frostbitten streets of Woodbury, sometimes rode to the end of the line just to sit side by side. Evelyn wrote letters to her son—never sending them, keeping them tucked in a notebook. Sometimes she’d read me passages full of sunlight, the scent of grass, and the warmth of her memories. I listened, too afraid to admit I’d fallen for her. Too afraid to shatter her fragile world.
Then one morning, she wasn’t there. Not on the platform, not on the train, not on the next one. A week passed, then another—she’d vanished. I kept riding, knowing it was pointless. She’d left, like birds do—not because they want to, but because life demands it.
Two months later, I found a note in my jacket pocket. Her handwriting—neat yet light, like her footsteps:
“You were my companion on this journey. Thank you for the warmth. I’m moving on. Maybe wherever I’m going, I’ll remember how to laugh again. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”
I did.
Since then, I’ve started really seeing people on the Tube—their tears, their distant stares, their smiles tucked behind thoughts. Sometimes, catching sight of someone in a scarlet coat, I freeze, and my heart leaps foolishly. Then the silence returns.
But one day, I smiled. Realised not everyone leaves for good. Some leave behind a bit of light, so you can keep going. Not for them—but for yourself.
