Late for the train, she went home without warning and couldn’t hold back her tears.
Missing her ride, Emma decided to return unannounced. The moment she stepped through the door, the tears came unbidden. A chilly October wind whipped sharp raindrops against her face as she watched the train pull away, a dull ache settling in her chest. She was late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine trips homeshed missed it. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, absently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The platform was deserted and eerie, the yellow lamplight reflecting in puddles, creating strange paths of light.
“Next train isnt till tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk said flatly, not even glancing up. “Fancy the bus instead?”
Emma wrinkled her nose. *Three hours rattling down potholed roads? No, thank you.*
Her phone buzzed in her bagMum was calling. She paused, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why cause worry? Better to just slip inside quietly; she always had her keys. The taxi sped through empty streets, the city outside the window looking like a stage setunreal, flat.
The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic, but Emma wasnt listening. Inside her, something unfamiliar swellednot quite dread, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar scents of childhood: third-floor roast potatoes, laundry powder, the faint tang of old wood. But tonight, the usual symphony felt off, like a discordant note had slipped in.
The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if the door resisted. The hallway was dark and silenther parents were clearly asleep. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything was as shed left it: bookshelves, her old study desk, the threadbare teddy bear on the beda relic Mum couldnt bear to part with. But something was different. Something intangible had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, stickier, like the prelude to a storm. The house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Emma pulled her laptop from her bagwork wouldnt wait. But as she reached for the socket behind the desk, her hand brushed a small box. It toppled, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, corners bent. A young Mum, barely more than a girl, laughing, her head resting on the shoulder of a stranger. The first tear fell before Emma even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was expressive, boldutterly unfamiliar.
*”My dearest Victoria, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our… Forgive me, its terrifying even to write itour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Emmas heart hammered. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993… Her entire childhood, her whole life, written in a strangers hand.
*”…saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I didnt dare approach…”*
*”…fifteen years old. I imagine what a beauty shes become. Victoria, perhaps its time…?”*
A lump formed in her throat. She flicked the desk lamp on, and the yellow light revealed an old photograph. She studied the strangers face hungrily. High forehead, intelligent eyes, a slightly mocking smile… Good Lord, she had his nose! Even the way he tilted his head
“Emma?”
The quiet voice made her jump. Mum stood in the doorway, her face draining of colour at the sight of the scattered letters.
“Mum, what is this?” Emma held up the photo. “Dont say hes just an old friend. I can seeI can *feel*”
Mum sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
“Edward… Edward William Hartford,” she said, voice hushed, as if from another room. “I thought this story would stay in the past…”
“*Story?*” Emma hissed. “Mum, this is my *life*! Why did you keep this from me? Why did *he*”
“Because we had to!” Pain cracked through Mums voice. “You dont understandthings were different then. His parents, mine… They wouldnt let us be together.”
Silence draped the room like heavy fabric. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe very one shed missed today. Coincidence? Or fate deciding the truth was overdue?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened, the room thick with cold tea and unspoken words.
“He was an English teacher,” Mum murmured, as if afraid to scare the memories away. “Assigned to our school. Young, handsome, recited poetry by heart… Every girl was half in love with him.”
Emma barely recognised her. Where was the ever-practical woman she knew? Before her sat someone elseyoung, lovesick, eyes alight.
“And then…” Mums jaw tightened. “Then I found out I was pregnant. You cant imagine the uproar! His parents called me a provincial nobody, mine ranted about shame…”
“And you just… gave up?” Bitterness crept into Emmas voice.
“They transferred him. No discussion. A month later, I was introduced to your” She hesitated. “to Robert. A good man. Steady.”
*Steady*, echoed in Emmas mind. *Like an old sofa. 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, real anguish broke through. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often… But he wrote.”
Emma picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”Dearest Victoria, Ive moved to Oakvale, bought a house on Willow Lane. Perhaps one day… Yours always, E.”*
“Oakvale,” Emma said slowly. “Thats only four hours from here.”
Mum paled. “Dont even thinkEmma, dont dredge up the past”
“The *past*?” Emma stood. “Mum, this isnt the past. Its *now*. My now. And I have a right to know.”
Dawn broke outside. A new day demanded new choices.
“Im going,” Emma said firmly. “Today.”
For the first time in that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Oakvale greeted her with drizzle and a biting wind. The little town seemed frozen in time: two-storey houses, sparse foot traffic, quiet lanes straight from a provincial novel.
Willow Lane was on the outskirts. Emma walked slowly, scanning house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly it mightve echoed down the street.
Number 17. Neat, small, with curtains drawn and yellow asters by the gate. It wasnt locked.
*What do I even say? Hello, Im your daughter?*
She didnt have to decide.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
“Victoria?” he whispered.
“No… Not Victoria.”
“Im Emma,” her voice shook. “Emma Catherine… though Im not sure about the middle name now.”
Edward William Hartford 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 every wall. On onea print of Millais *Ophelia*, her favourite painting since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” Edward fumbled with mugs. “But I imagined it a thousand different ways…”
“Why didnt you fight for us?” The question tore free.
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 pain in his voice squeezed her chest.
“You know,” he gazed past her, “every birthday, I bought you a gift. Theyre all here…”
He opened a door. Emma gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
“First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he lifted one gently. “*The Little Prince* with original illustrationsseven… I chose what Id have read to you.”
Emma traced the spines. Thirty years of missed conversations, of unshared stories.
“And this” He pulled a worn volume. “Your first published story. *Letters to Nowhere*. I recognised your styleyou write like I do.”
“You *followed* me?” She didnt know whether to be furious or weep.
“Not followed. Just… lived
