Late for the train, she returned home without warning and could not hold back her tears.
Having missed her usual carriage, Evelyn decided to return unannounced. The moment she stepped inside, the tears came unbidden. A bitter October wind lashed her face with sharp, stinging raindrops. She watched the receding train, and a wave of regret washed over her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine journeys homeshe had missed it. *Like something out of a bad dream,* she thought, absently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The platform stood empty and eerie, only the yellow lamps reflected in the puddles, casting strange paths of light.
“The next train isnt until tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk droned, barely glancing at her. “Theres always the coach?”
*The coach* Evelyn frowned. *Three hours rattling down country lanes? No, thank you.*
Her handbag buzzedher mother was calling. She paused, staring at the screen, but did not answer. Why cause alarm? Better to simply go home. She always carried her key. The cab sped through quiet streets, the city beyond the window looking like a stage setflat, unreal.
The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic, but Evelyn paid no heed. Inside her, an odd feeling swelledneither anxiety nor joy.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar scents of childhood: roast potatoes from the flat above, laundry detergent, the faint tang of polished wood. But today, a discordant note pierced the usual harmony.
The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if the door resisted. The hallway lay dark and silenther parents must have already gone to bed. Tiptoeing to her room, she took care to make no noise. Switching on the desk lamp, she looked around. Everything as it should be: bookshelves, the old study desk, the threadbare teddy bear on the beda relic of childhood her mother could never bear to part with. Yet something was amiss. Some intangible shift had occurred.
Perhaps it was the silence? Not the usual hush of night, but something thicker, heavierlike the air before a storm. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Evelyn pulled her laptop from her bagwork never slept. But as she reached for the socket behind the desk, her fingers brushed a small box. It toppled from the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of them, in yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, its corners curled. A young mother, barely more than a girl, laughing as she leaned against a strangers shoulder. The first tear fell before Evelyn even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, assuredutterly unfamiliar.
*My dearest Margaret, I know I should not write, but I cant keep silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our Forgive me, even writing it is terrifyingour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?*
Her heart hammered. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993 Her entire childhood, her whole life, written in a strangers hand.
*”I saw her from a distance outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I didnt dare approach”*
*”Fifteen years old. I can only imagine how lovely shes become. Margaret, perhaps the time has come?”*
A lump rose in her throat. The lamplight cast shadows over an old photograph. She studied the strangers face with hungry intensity. The high forehead, the keen eyes, the faintly mocking smile Good Lord, she had his nose. Even the way he tilted his head
*”Evelyn?”* Her mothers quiet voice made her jump. *”Why didnt you tell me you were”*
Margaret froze in the doorway, staring at the letters strewn across the floor. The colour drained from her face.
*”Mum, what is this?”* Evelyn lifted the photograph. *”Dont say he was just an old friend. I can see I can feel it.”*
Her mother sank slowly onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
*”William William Edward Hawthorne,”* she said, her voice hollow, as if speaking from another room. *”I thought I thought this would stay in the past.”*
*”The past?”* Evelyn nearly hissed the word. *”Mum, this *is* my past! Why did you keep this from me? Why did hewhy did *you”*
*”Because we had to!”* Pain cracked through her mothers voice. *”You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt allow it.”*
A heavy silence settled over the room like a shroud. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle blewthe very one shed missed that evening. Coincidence? Or had fate decided it was time for the truth to surface?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened; inside, the air grew thick with the scent of cold tea and unspoken words.
*”He was an English teacher,”* Margaret said softly, as if afraid to startle the memories. *”Assigned to our school. Young, handsome, could recite poetry by heart Half the girls were besotted.”*
Evelyn barely recognised her. Where was the woman of perpetual restraint? Before her sat someone elseyoung, lovesick, her eyes alight.
*”And then”* Her mother bit her lip. *”Then I found out I was expecting. You cant imagine the uproar. His parents called me a provincial distraction, mine spoke of disgrace”*
*”And you just gave in?”* Bitterness seeped into Evelyns voice.
*”He was transferred. Without warning, without discussion. A month later, I was introduced to your”* She faltered. *”to Robert. A good man. Steady.”*
*Steady,* the word echoed in Evelyns mind. *Like an old armchair. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this flat.*
*”But the letters Why keep them?”*
*”Because I couldnt throw them away!”* For the first time that night, raw grief broke through. *”They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often But he wrote.”*
Evelyn picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”Dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Willowbrook, bought a house on Elm Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, W.”*
*”Willowbrook,”* she murmured. *”Thats only four hours from here.”*
Her mother paled.
*”Dont even think it! Evelyn, some things are best left”*
*”In the past?”* Evelyn stood. *”Mum, this isnt the past. Its *now.* And I have a right to know.”*
Dawn broke outside. A new day demanded new choices.
*”Im going,”* she said firmly. *”Today.”*
And for the first time in that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Willowbrook met her with a biting wind and drizzling rain. The little village seemed frozen in time: ageing cottages, few pedestrians, lanes as quiet as pages from a rural novel.
Elm Lane lay on the outskirts. Evelyn walked slowly, scanning house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly it might have echoed down the street.
Number 17. Neat, modest, with curtains drawn and golden asters by the gate. The latch was unlocked.
*What do I even say?* The thought flickered. *Hello, Im your daughter?*
But the decision was taken from her.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
*”Margaret?”* he whispered.
*”No not Margaret.”*
*”Im Evelyn,”* her voice wavered. *”Evelyn Carter though Im not sure about the surname now.”*
William Edward Hawthorne went pale, gripping the porch railing.
*”Good Lord,”* was all he managed. *”Come in please.”*
The house smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with well-worn volumes.
On one wall hung a print of *The Lady of Shalott*Evelyns favourite painting since childhood.
*”I always knew this day would come,”* William said, fumbling with the cups. *”But I imagined it a thousand different ways”*
*”Why didnt you fight for us?”* The question burst out unbidden.
He stilled, kettle in hand. *”Because I was weak,”* he said simply. *”Because I believed it was for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.”*
The raw ache in his voice clutched at her chest
