Every morning at 6:48, Emily drew back the curtains. Not a minute earlier, not a second later. Right at 6:48, when the first rays of sunlight crept over the rooftops of the terraced houses in Manchester, they spilled onto the windowsill of her tiny kitchen, spread across the faded linoleum, and grazed the edge of her chipped mug of tea. That light was like a silent signal—proof that, despite everything, the day had begun again.
At first, it was just a habit. Then, it became a lifeline. Doing the same thing at the same time kept her from falling apart. Pulling open the curtains was her whisper to herself: *You’re still here. You’re still holding on.*
After the divorce, her world had split in two. Friends faded away, as though afraid to brush against her grief. Her mother called less often, struggling to fill the awkward silence. Work consumed her—Emily took every shift she could, just to drown out her own thoughts. But quiet always found her. It was strange now, hollow, like the echo of an empty flat after guests had gone. And in that echoing silence, only one thing remained constant—the window facing east.
Behind the glass lived a man. Every morning, at the exact same time, he appeared on the balcony opposite. Mug in hand—tea or coffee, she couldn’t tell. Always in a black jumper, barefoot, even on frosty mornings. Sometimes he’d light a cigarette, each drag a pause, as if searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t name. Other times, he just stared into the distance—not at the brick houses, not at the busy street, but somewhere far beyond, where the world felt endless. Her balcony was slightly higher, across the road. He never saw her. But she saw him. And it became her little secret, her quiet marker that the day had truly begun.
They never met. Never spoke. Yet he became her anchor. At 6:48, she opened the curtains; he stepped onto the balcony—and the world didn’t crumble. Someone else was keeping time, someone else rose, made tea, watched the sky. He was part of her morning, unseen but essential, like breathing.
After a month, she started preparing breakfast differently. A second mug on the table, though she drank alone. An extra slice of toast, as if someone might sit across from her. At first, it was accidental. Then deliberate. As if she were calling to him—through walls, through distance, through silence. As if this small gesture could make the morning feel a little warmer.
One day, he didn’t appear.
6:48. The balcony stood empty. 6:50. 6:55. Emily pressed her palm to the cold glass, as if she could reach through it, cross the space between their homes. The flat was so quiet she could hear the steam settling over the cooling kettle. Something inside her snapped. Like an invisible mechanism had stalled—one that had been holding her days together. Like the sun had risen but left her in shadow.
She waited for him three mornings straight. In the same faded dressing gown, the same mug now cold in her hands. Each time she pulled back the curtains, her heart clenched—hope and dread tangled together. Each time, nothing. Just empty glass. Wind skimming the vacant balcony.
A week later, he returned. Same black jumper, stubble a little thicker. Mug in hand, like always. He smiled—not at her, but at the sky. And suddenly, Emily felt that smile inside her. As if the world, frozen for a moment, had started breathing again. Not an absence, just a pause. And things could still be.
A month later, she took the plunge. Bought a plain white postcard, no designs. Wrote just three words:
**”6:48. Thank you.”**
No signature. Just those words, neatly printed in black ink. She slipped it into his building’s postbox, forcing herself not to look back. Not expecting a reply. Not hoping for a miracle. Just letting go of what had been pressing against her ribs, through paper, through silence.
The answer came the next day. At 6:48. He stood on the balcony. Two mugs in hand. One, he lifted slightly, like a toast. Like saying, *I understand.* Like handing her a thread woven through morning light.
They never spoke. Never wrote. But every morning, in two windows, two people. Opposite sides of the street. Separate, yet held in the same moment. As if between them stretched something fragile, invisible—built on glances, on the precision of this ritual.
And sometimes, that’s enough. To know you’re seen. That you’re waiting for someone, even in silence. As if it could last forever.
