Light Beyond the Rooftops
Every morning at precisely 6:48, Emily pulled back the curtains. Not a minute sooner, not a second later. Right as the sun’s first rays crept over the rows of terraced houses in Manchester, spilling onto the peeling laminate of her tiny kitchen. The light caught on the chipped rim of her favourite mug, warming the tea inside. That glow was a silent promise—it whispered that despite everything, the day would go on.
At first, it was just routine. Then, it became survival. Repeating the same motion at the same time kept her from crumbling. Drawing the curtains meant reminding herself: *You’re still here. You’re still standing.*
After the divorce, her world had fractured. Friends drifted away, as if afraid to disturb her grief. Her mum called less often, struggling to fill the awkward pauses. Work swallowed her whole—Emily took every shift, every project, just to drown out the silence. But it always found her. The emptiness hummed, loud as an empty flat after the last guest leaves. The only constant was the east-facing window.
Behind that glass lived a man. Every morning, without fail, he appeared on the balcony across the road. Black t-shirt, barefoot, even in frost. A mug in hand—tea or coffee, she never knew. Sometimes he smoked, each drag slow, deliberate, like he was searching for an answer in the haze. Other times, he just stared beyond the rooftops, where the sky stretched endless. Her balcony sat slightly higher. He never saw her. But she saw him. That was her secret, her anchor. Proof that the world hadn’t stopped.
They never spoke. Never met. Yet he was the rhythm her days clung to. At 6:48, she opened the curtains; he stepped outside—and for that moment, nothing collapsed. Someone else kept time with her. Someone else sipped tea, watched the clouds. He was part of her morning, invisible but vital as breath.
After a month, she began setting the table differently. An extra cup, though she drank alone. Two slices of toast, as if expecting company. At first, it was unconscious. Then, intentional. A quiet invitation—through brick and air, through the hush. As if the gesture could warm the room.
Then, one morning, he wasn’t there.
6:48. The balcony stood empty. 6:50. 6:55. Emily pressed her palm to the cold glass, willing him to appear. The flat was so quiet she heard the kettle’s dying steam. Something inside her splintered. The gears of her world—gears she hadn’t noticed—ground to a halt. The sun rose, but her shadow stayed.
She waited three days. Same faded dressing gown, same cooling tea. Each time she tugged the curtains back, her chest tightened—hope and dread twisted together. Each time: nothing. Wind rattling the railings. Silence.
He returned a week later. Same black t-shirt, stubble thicker. Mug in hand. He smiled—not at her, at the dawn—but the warmth of it bloomed in her ribs. The world breathed again. The gap hadn’t been an ending. Just a pause.
A month later, she took a chance. Bought a plain white postcard. Wrote three words:
*”6:48. Thank you.”*
No name. Just ink on paper. She slipped it into his postbox and walked away, eyes forward. Didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t need one. Just let the words go, like setting a feather loose on the wind.
The answer came the next morning. At 6:48. He stood on the balcony. Two mugs this time. Lifted one slightly—a toast. A silent *”I know.”* A thread strung between them in the pale gold light.
They never spoke. Never wrote. But every dawn, two figures in two windows. Across the road. In the same heartbeat. As if an invisible line stretched between them, tied not by words, but by the certainty of that moment.
And sometimes, that’s enough. To be seen. To be waited for. Even in silence. Even if it’s only ever this.
