Light Beyond the Horizon
Every morning at precisely half six, Eleanor would draw back the curtains. Not a minute sooner, not a moment later. Right at half past, when the first golden streaks of dawn crept over the rooftops of the terrace houses in Manchester, spilling onto the faded linoleum of her tiny kitchen and grazing the rim of her chipped teacup. That light was a silent signal—proof, despite everything, that another day had begun.
At first, it was merely routine. Then, it became her anchor. The repetition—the same motion at the same hour—kept her from crumbling. To open the curtains was to whisper to herself: *You are still here. You endure.*
After the divorce, her world split at the seams. Friends drifted away, as if fearing her grief might be contagious. Her mother phoned less often, stumbling over words to fill the uneasy quiet. Work swallowed her whole—Eleanor took every task thrown her way, if only to drown out the echo of her own thoughts. Yet the silence always found her. It grew strange and hollow, like an empty parlour after guests had departed. In that deafening void, only one thing remained constant: her east-facing window.
Beyond the glass lived a man. Every morning, at the same unvarying hour, he stepped onto the balcony across High Street. Always with a mug—tea or coffee, she could never tell. Always in a dark jumper, barefoot, even on the frost-laced mornings. Sometimes he smoked, each drag a pause, as though searching for an answer he couldn’t name. Sometimes he simply stared into the distance—not at the red-brick houses or the rattling lorries, but somewhere beyond the horizon, where the world seemed endless. Her balcony stood slightly higher, separated by the road. He never saw her. But she saw him. And so it became her quiet ritual, her private compass, proof that the day had truly begun.
They never met. Never spoke. Yet he became her tether. At half six, she drew back the curtains; he stepped outside—and the world did not collapse. Someone else kept time with her. Someone else rose, brewed tea, gazed at the sky. He was part of her morning, invisible yet vital, like breath.
After a month, she began setting the table differently. Placing out a second mug, though she drank alone. Toasting extra bread, as if expecting company. At first, it was absentminded. Then deliberate. As though she were calling to him—through walls, through distance, through silence. As though this small act might make the morning feel less hollow.
One day, he didn’t appear.
Half six. The balcony stood empty. Twenty to seven. Quarter past. Eleanor pressed a palm to the cold pane, as if she could reach across the gap between them. The flat was so quiet she heard the whistle of the kettle fade. Something within her splintered. As though an unseen mechanism—the very thing holding her days together—had ground to a halt. As though the sun had risen but left her in shadow.
She waited three mornings. Same faded dressing gown, same cooling mug clutched between her fingers. Each time she tugged the curtains aside, her heart clenched—hope and dread twisting together. Each time: nothing. Just the wind rattling the empty railings.
He returned after a week. Same dark jumper, stubble thickening at his jaw. Mug in hand, stepping outside as if nothing had changed. He smiled—not at her, but at the dawn. And Eleanor felt that smile take root inside her. As though the world, paused mid-breath, had begun again. It wasn’t an abyss. Just an interlude. And all was not yet lost.
A month later, she gathered her courage. Bought a plain postcard—white, unadorned. Wrote just three words:
*”Half six. Thank you.”*
No signature. Only those words, penned neatly in black ink. She slipped it into the letterbox of his building, walking away without looking back. She didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t ask for miracles. Just released what had gathered in her chest, through paper, through silence.
The answer came the next morning. At half six. He stood on the balcony, two mugs in hand. One, he lifted slightly—a wordless toast. As if to say: *I understand.* As if bridging the gap between them with nothing but morning light.
They never spoke. Never wrote. But every dawn, in two windows opposite one another—two people. On either side of the street. In separate frames. Yet bound by the same breath of time, as though an invisible thread linked them, spun from glances and the precision of that single, fragile moment.
And sometimes, that is enough. To be seen. To be waited for. Even in silence. Even as if forever.
