**Light Beyond the Horizon**
Every morning at half six, Emma pulled open the curtains. Never a minute sooner, never a moment later. Exactly at 6:30, when the first sunbeams broke over the rooftops of Liverpool’s terraced houses, they spilled across the sill of her modest kitchen, spread over the faded linoleum, and brushed the rim of her chipped teacup. That light was a silent signal—proof that despite everything, a new day had come.
At first, it had been nothing more than routine. Then it became her lifeline. The repetition, the sameness, kept her from falling apart. Drawing the curtains each dawn was a whisper to herself: *You’re still here. You’re still holding on.*
After the divorce, her world had splintered. Friends drifted away as if wary of touching her grief. Her mother called less often, fumbling for words to fill the uneasy quiet. Work swallowed her whole—she took every shift she could, if only to drown out the echo of her own thoughts. But the silence always returned, sharp and hollow, like an empty house after guests had gone. In that suffocating stillness, the only constant was her window, facing east.
Beyond the glass, there was a man. Every morning, unfailingly, he stepped onto the balcony across the road. Mug in hand—tea or coffee, she could never tell. Always in a dark jumper, barefoot, even on frosty mornings. Sometimes he’d light a cigarette, exhaling slowly as if chasing an answer to an unspoken question. Other times, he simply stared into the distance—past the redbrick houses, past the rush of cars—towards the horizon where the sky met the sea. Her flat was a floor higher, separated by the street below. He never saw her. But she saw him. And that became her secret, her quiet marker that the day had indeed begun.
They never met. Never spoke. Yet he became her anchor. At 6:30, she opened the curtains; he stepped outside—and for those moments, the world stayed intact. Someone else kept this fragile rhythm alive. Someone else rose, brewed a drink, tilted their face to the sky. He was part of her morning—unseen yet essential, like breath.
After a month, she set an extra place at breakfast. A second cup, though she drank alone. An extra slice of toast, as if expecting company. At first, it was unconscious habit. Then deliberate. As if she could call him across the distance, the walls, the silence. As if this small act might make the morning less cold.
One day, he didn’t appear.
6:30. The balcony remained empty. 6:35. 6:40. Emma stood with her palm pressed to the chilled window, as though she could reach through the space between them. The flat was so quiet she could hear the kettle’s dying hum. Something inside her faltered. As if an invisible thread holding her days together had snapped. As if dawn had come but left her in shadow.
She waited three mornings. Same faded dressing gown. Same cup turning tepid in her hands. Each time she drew the curtains, her heart tightened—hope and dread tangled. And each time: nothing. Empty air. Wind rattling the railings.
He returned after a week. Same dark jumper, stubble a little longer. A mug in his grasp, just like always. He smiled—not at her, but at the pale morning sky. Yet suddenly, that smile took root inside her. The world had paused, but now it breathed again. Not an ending—only a pause. There could still be more.
A month later, she gathered her courage. A plain postcard, white, unadorned. Three words in black ink:
*“6:30. Thank you.”*
No signature. Just those words. She slipped it into his letterbox without looking back. Not waiting for a reply. Not expecting miracles. Simply letting go of what had weighed on her chest.
The answer came the next dawn. At 6:30. He stood on the balcony—two mugs in hand. One he lifted slightly, like a toast. *I understand.* As if threading the morning light between them.
They never exchanged words. Never wrote again. But every morning, two figures in two windows. Across the road. One silent moment suspended in time. A quiet bond woven from glances, from the precision of a shared hour.
Sometimes, that was enough. To be seen. To be waited for, however wordlessly. As if it might last forever.
