New Year’s Quiet: An Unexpected Snow, a Suitcase of Memories, and Anna’s First Step Toward Hope

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 1

The Silence of New Years Eve

November had draped itself over London with cold rain and dreary skies, as it always did. The days dragged on, each one as grey and cheerless as the last. Sarah barely registered Decembers arrivalit was only the relentless adverts for prosecco, mince pies, and clementines that marked the change.

The city leapt into festive overdrive: shop windows twinkled with fairy lights, and people darted through the crowds, clutching bags as if they were in a marathon. Everyone rushed, everyone fussed, each person absorbed in plans and promises.

Sarah wasnt waiting for anything, and she couldnt muster up any urgency. She simply looked forward to it all being over.

Forty years old. Now. The divorce, finalised three months ago, hadnt left a woundjust an odd, numb emptiness. No children, so no messy compromises. Just two lives that had run side by side for years and, at last, split off in different directions.

Happy New Year! her colleagues would beam, winking and cheerful.

Sarah replied with a polite smile, void of happiness. Each day she repeated to herself: Nothing special. Just December turning into January. Wednesday follows Thursday. No cause for celebration.

Her plans for New Years Eve could not have been simpler: a hot shower, her oldest pyjamas, a mug of chamomile tea, and bed by ten oclockjust as any other night.

No Russian Salad, no classic films on repeat, and not a bottle of prosecco forgotten in the fridge for another year.

***

The night arrived.

It seemed that even the weather had joined the joke, throwing a cold, slashing rain at the city that turned roads to slush. The sky pressed down, heavy and relentless, and the streetlights looked dull and joyless. Perfect conditions for hiding away.

By nine thirty, Sarah was already in bed beneath her warm duvet. Next doors music played softly through the walls. She shut her eyes, trying to sleep.

A sudden, persistent banging broke the quietimpossible to ignore.

Someone was knocking at her door, not gently but with urgent, steady thuds. Sarah sat up, muttering about drunk, thoughtless neighbours. The clock read:

11:45pm…

She got up but didnt head to the door. Surely someone had the wrong flat. Theyd knock, realise, and leave. Instead, she peered out her windowand paused, astonished.

Gone was the filthy rain and slush and tarmac. Instead, in the light of the streetlamp, huge, soft snowflakes drifted lazily, settling on the ground in a thick, white blanket.

The city had transformed into a fairy tale in just a few hours.

***

The knocking began again, quieter now but insistent.

Still enchanted by the snow, Sarah went to open the door, more curious than cautious. She turned the key and swung the door wide.

There stood her neighbour.

Arthur, from just across the halla gently ageing man, wild silver hair, eyes always sparkling with mischief. He was wrapped in a frayed tweed jacket, with a thick scarf tossed around his neck half-heartedly.

In one hand he held a battered leather suitcase; in the other, a glass jar stuffed full of deep red, delicious-looking jam.

I do apologise for disturbing you, he said, voice rough but warm, I couldnt help but notice well, it seemed terribly quiet in here tonight. Theres something special about New Years silence. I couldnt ignore it.

Sarah stared, then turned to look at the swirling, magical snowfall, light sparkling on its surface.

Arthur what do you want? she managed, feeling disoriented.

Ive brought a little gift, he offered the jar. Cranberry preservemy late wife always said it soothed the worst gloom. And he raised the suitcase, I wanted to show you something, if youll let me. Just fifteen minutes, I promise. Until midnight.

She hesitated at the threshold. Her apathythe wall of nothing specialhad cracked. The miraculous snow, her eccentric neighbour, suitcase and jam The curiosity shed buried beneath pragmatism and disappointment stirred.

Do come in, she said, uncertain but stepping back.

Arthur knocked snow from his boots and set the suitcase in the lounge, which was half-lit from the streetlamp outside.

You keep things minimal, he remarked without judgement or pity.

I didnt plan on celebrating, she replied simply.

I understand, Arthur nodded. After changes like yours, celebrations seem more like insults. All around, people rejoice, and you simply cant. You wonder if theres something wrong with you.

She looked at him, surprised by how precisely his words rang.

Theyd barely spoken beforeperhaps a passing word about the weather or the post.

Really?

Im old, Sarah. Ive seen countless people. Many bleak Decembers. I know thiswinter isnt an ending. Its a time for the earth to rest and gather strength. People need that, too. To rest, not to stay asleep forever.

He unlocked the suitcase and opened it. Nestled inside, on velvet, were dozens of glass baubles. All different. One was midnight blue, dusted with silver like stars in the Milky Way. Another, bright crimson, held a delicately painted golden rose. A third was plain and clear, but from a certain angle, it caught the light and cast a tiny rainbow.

What are these? Sarah whispered, leaning in.

My collection, Arthur said proudly. Not stamps. Not coins. Memories. Each bauble holds one happy moment from my life. This blue onemy wife and Is first mountain trip, watching the stars, promising always to be together. We kept that promise. The red oneher gift on our first anniversary. She said love was a rose that never wilted.

Sarah gazed at these miniature crystal worlds, and her heartfrozen for monthsbegan to thaw. They were not simply ornaments. They were tokens of a life full of meaning, warmth, and love.

Why show me?

Because youre empty, Arthur said gently. But emptiness isnt a curse. Its spacea place to fill with something new. Watch.

He pulled another bauble from his jacket pocket. It was simple, perfectly clear, no decorations.

This is yours, he said, handing her the bauble. Tonight is your first. The symbol of this evening. The moment you opened the door instead of turning away. The first snow you saw from your window. Even in the greyest quiet, a miracle can happen.

Sarah took it in her hands. It was cool and smooth.

Outside, Big Bens chimes rang and shouts of Happy New Year! echoed through the streets.

Sarah looked up at Arthur. His eyes sparklednot just with mischief but with deep wisdom.

Thank you, she replied softly, and for the first time in months, a true, if tentative, smile appeared on her lips.

Youre welcome, Arthur grinned. Now you have a beginning. From here, you choose what memory to place insideperhaps a mug of coffee in the morning. Or finishing a book. Maybe something grander. Who knows? A new year is just beginning.

He packed up his suitcase, wished her goodnight, and left Sarah alone with the silence.

But now, the quiet was differentno longer heavy and empty, but filled with gentle hope and contentment.

She walked to the window, bauble in hand. The snow still fell, erasing old footprints and covering the world in fresh white. For the first time in ages, Sarahs thoughts turned to what lay ahead

And that, really, was the truest New Years miracle of all.

Life often seems wrapped in dull moments, but it is in the quiet, unexpected giftsof kindness, of new beginningsthat hope returns, if we only dare to open the door.

Every Kind of Love Has Its Own Shape Anya stepped outside and shivered; the raw English wind cut straight through her thin jumper. She had hurried out into the garden without grabbing her coat, passed through the gate, and stood there, looking around, not even noticing the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” Startled, she saw Mikey, the neighbour’s boy, a bit older than her, with tousled hair sticking up at the back of his head. “I’m not crying, I just…,” Annie lied. Mikey just looked at her, then handed her three sweets he pulled from his pocket. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Go inside,” he said firmly. She obeyed. “Thanks,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… it’s just…” But Mikey understood everything, nodded, and wandered off. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He’d often go down to the corner shop—our only one—and beg Mrs. Valentine to let him have more on tick until payday. Mrs. Valentine would scold him, but always gave in. “How haven’t you lost your job yet?” she’d call after him. “You owe us a fortune already!” But Andrew would just hurry away and spend the money on drink. Annie let herself back into the house. She’d just got in from school; she was nine. There was never much to eat at home, and she never wanted to say she was hungry. If she did, they’d take her away from her dad to a care home, and she’d heard such awful things about those. Besides, how would Dad cope on his own? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was always empty. That day, school had finished early—her teacher was off sick and two lessons were cancelled. It was the end of September. The wind was biting, tearing golden leaves from the trees and swirling them around. It had been a cold September. Annie’s old coat and boots weren’t much use—when it rained, they got soaked. Her father was asleep on the sofa in his clothes and shoes, snoring. There were two empty bottles on the kitchen table, and more stashed under it. Annie opened the kitchen cupboard—empty. Not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate the sweets Mikey had given her and decided to do her homework, perched on a stool with her knees tucked up. She opened her maths book but just stared at the numbers. She couldn’t concentrate, not with the wind howling and the yard full of blowing leaves. The window overlooked the veg patch. It used to be lush and green, but now it looked dead. The raspberry canes were dry, the strawberries gone, and only weeds grew in the beds now—even the old apple tree was barren. Mum used to look after it all, cherishing every shoot. The apples had been sweet, but this August Dad had picked them all early and sold them at the market. “We need the money,” he’d muttered. Dad hadn’t always been like this. He used to be cheerful. He’d go mushroom picking in the woods with Mum, they’d all watch films together and have tea with warm apple fritters and homemade jam buns Mum baked. Then one day Mum got ill and was taken to hospital. She never came back. “Mum’s had something with her heart,” Dad had said through tears, holding Annie close. “She’ll be watching over you now.” For weeks, Dad just sat with Mum’s photo. Then he started drinking. Strange, loud men began dropping by the house and Annie would hide away in her small room, or sit alone on the garden bench. Annie sighed and got on with her homework. She was a clever girl and finished quickly. She packed her books away and lay on her bed. On her bed was her old stuffed bunny, Tim—Mum had bought it years ago. Once white, now grey, but just as loved. Annie hugged him close. “Tim,” she whispered, “do you remember our mum?” Tim was silent, but Annie was sure he remembered everything, just like she did. As she closed her eyes, memories flooded back—blurry, but joyful. Mum in her apron, hair pinned up, kneading dough. Always baking something. “Let’s make magic buns together, darling.” “How, Mum? Are magic buns real?” Annie would ask. “Oh yes,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you eat one, you have to make a wish. It’ll come true, you’ll see.” Annie would help her mum shape the buns into wonky hearts and Mum, always smiling, would say, “Every kind of love has its own shape.” She’d wait eagerly for the buns to bake, ready to eat a hot one and make her wish. The smell of sweet buns would fill the house and then Dad would come home and the three of them would have tea together. Annie wiped away the tears. Those times were gone now… The clock ticked on and her heart ached—empty, lonely, missing her mum. “Mummy,” she breathed, clutching Tim, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday, with no school, she decided to go for a walk after lunch—Dad was dozing again. Annie pulled on an old jumper under her coat and headed towards the woods. Nearby stood an old house—Mr. Evans’ place. He’d passed away two years before, but his apple orchard remained. It wasn’t her first visit. She’d clamber over the fence to collect fallen apples and pears, reassuring herself: “I’m not stealing. They’d just go to waste otherwise.” She only vaguely remembered Mr. Evans—a kind old man with a cane who would give kids fruit and even a sweet if he found one in his pockets. After he passed, the orchard kept bearing fruit. Annie reached the fence, slipped over, picked up two apples, rubbed one clean on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” She jumped, dropping the apples. A woman in a smart coat was standing on the porch. “Who are you?” the woman asked again. “Annie… I… I’m not stealing, just… ones from the ground. I thought no one lived here anymore…” “I’m Mr. Evans’ granddaughter. Came yesterday—this is my new home now. Have you been picking apples here long?” “Since Mum died,” Annie’s voice cracked and tears welled. The woman pulled her into a hug. “Shh, don’t cry. Come inside, be my guest. My name’s Anna, like yours! When you’re older, they’ll call you Anna, too.” Anna quickly realised Annie was hungry and her life wasn’t easy. Inside, Anna invited her to take off her shoes. “I only moved in yesterday, still unpacking. But let me get you something to eat—I’ve made chicken soup and a few other things. So, we’re neighbours, it seems.” She eyed Annie’s thin jacket, the sleeves too short for growing arms. “Is it chicken soup?” “Of course. Sit—eat as much as you want; if it’s not enough, I’ll get you some more.” Annie didn’t hesitate—her stomach rumbled, she hadn’t eaten all day. She finished her soup and bread in moments. “Would you like more?” Anna asked. “No, thank you. I’m full.” “Now, let’s have tea.” Anna brought out a basket, lifted the cloth—and the whole kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it and squeezed her eyes shut. “Just like Mum’s,” she whispered. “My mum used to bake these, just like this.” After tea, relaxed and rosy-cheeked, Annie chatted while Anna listened closely. “Come on, Annie, tell me about yourself—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you back afterwards.” “I can go by myself, honestly—it’s only four houses away.” Annie didn’t want Anna to see the mess at Harry’s house. “Nonsense,” Anna said firmly. Annie’s home was still and quiet; her father lay asleep on the sofa, bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty rags scattered about. Anna looked around and shook her head. “Now I understand…” she said quietly. “Let’s tidy up.” She swept the rubbish off the table, stuffed empty bottles into a bag, flung open the curtains and shook out the grubby mat. Annie blurted out: “Don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s not bad, he’s just… lost. If people find out, they’ll take me away—but I don’t want to leave. He’s just lonely for mum…” Anna hugged her tight. “I promise I won’t tell.” Time passed. Annie rushed to school in a smart new coat, hair in neat plaits, a shiny rucksack and new boots on her feet. “Annie, is it true your dad’s married now?” asked her classmate, Molly. “You look so pretty! And your hair’s amazing!” “It’s true! I’ve got a new mum now—Auntie Anna,” Annie beamed, hurrying to school. With Anna’s help, Andrew had long since quit drinking. Now you’d see them walking together—Andrew, tall and handsome, smartly dressed; Anna, confident and elegant, and always smiling at Annie. Time flew by. Annie was now a university student. She’d come home for the holidays, shout as she walked in the door— “Mum! I’m home!” Anna would run to meet her, hug her tight and laugh. “Welcome back, my little professor,” she’d say—and both would burst out laughing, as Andrew came home from work, as proud and happy as ever. Because every kind of love has its own shape.

Just a Childhood Friend – Are you honestly spending your whole Saturday sorting out junk in the garage? All day? – Ellie poked at a piece of cheesecake with her fork, one eyebrow raised as she eyed the tall, gingerish bloke across from her. Ivan leaned back in his chair, hands wrapped around a mug of cooling cappuccino. – Ellie… It’s not junk, it’s treasure from my childhood. Somewhere in there is my prized collection of ‘Love Hearts’ sweet wrappers, I’ll have you know. Do you realise how valuable that is? – Good grief. You actually saved sweet wrappers? Since when? Ellie snorted, her shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This cafe, with its worn-down, plum-coloured sofas and eternally foggy windows, had long since become their personal hideout. The waitress, Marina, didn’t bother taking their order – she simply brought Ivan his cappuccino, Ellie her latte, and whichever dessert was on offer for them to share. After fifteen years of friendship, their ritual was as automatic as breathing. – Alright, I’ll admit it, – Ivan saluted her with his mug, – the garage can wait. So can my ‘treasure’. Kieran’s planning a proper barbecue this Sunday, by the way. – Yeah, I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes might actually fall out from boredom. Their laughter faded into the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of other tables… …There were never awkward silences or unspoken truths between them – they knew each other as well as their own hands. Ellie remembered Ivan as the gangly year-seven with perpetually undone laces, first to talk to her when she was new. Ivan remembered Ellie, the only one who didn’t mock his oversized glasses. Kieran had always accepted their friendship without suspicion or question from the day they met. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the ease of someone sure of himself and the people he loved. On Friday game nights with Monopoly and Uno, Kieran would laugh the loudest whenever Ivan lost yet again in Scrabble to his wife, topping up the tea as the two debated the rules of charades. – He only wins because he cheats, – Ellie once declared, tossing playing cards at her husband. – That’s called strategy, darling wife, – Kieran replied serenely, gathering up the scattered cards. Ivan watched them with a warm, fond smile. He liked this man – solid, trustworthy, with a dry wit you only caught if you paid attention. Ellie was softer and happier around Kieran, and Ivan was genuinely glad for her, the way only a true friend can be. Their balance only wobbled when Vera came into their tightly-knit little world… …Kieran’s sister had appeared on their doorstep a month before, eyes red, all-in on starting afresh. Her divorce had drained every last drop of her spirit, leaving only bitterness and a gaping hole where stability used to live. The first night Ivan dropped by for the usual board games, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up as though some hidden switch flicked in her head. Here stood a man – calm, kind-eyed, with a smile that made you want to smile back. – This is Ivan, my school friend, – Ellie introduced. – And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. – Nice to meet you, – Ivan said, holding out his hand. Vera held onto it just a shade longer than a handshake required. – Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at the cafe just when Ivan and Ellie were there. She’d pop into the living room with a plate of biscuits whenever Ivan visited. She’d slide in next to him at game night, so close their shoulders touched. – Can you pass me that card? – Vera leaned right across him, hair tickling Ivan’s neck ‘by accident’. – Oh, sorry. Ivan carefully moved away, mumbling polite nothings. Ellie would catch Kieran’s eye, but he’d only shrug – his sister always was a bit much. Vera’s flirting grew bolder. She held Ivan’s gaze, paid compliments, found reasons to touch him, and laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. – You’ve got lovely hands, so slender, like a pianist’s, – Vera said one night, catching his hand over the poker chips. – Do you play? – Er… programmer, actually. – Still lovely. Ivan quickly reclaimed his hand, staring at his cards with exaggerated attention. Even his ears turned pink. After the third invitation to coffee “just to chat as friends”, Ivan caved. He liked Vera – she was full of life and drama; maybe something could work. With luck, she’d stop looking at him that way and life would return to normal. The first weeks of their romance were fine enough. Vera beamed, Ivan relaxed, family nights returned to just “family nights.” But soon, Vera noticed something she wished she hadn’t. She saw Ivan come alive when Ellie walked into the room, saw his face grow more open, the way their jokes bounced and sentences finished in tandem, an invisible connection she couldn’t touch. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. – Why are you always with her? – Vera demanded, arms folded, blocking Ivan at the front door. – She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. You have to— – But I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came thick and fast. Vera wept, accused, demanded. Ivan explained, pacified, made excuses. – You think about her more than about me! – Vera, this is ridiculous. We’re just friends. – Friends don’t look at each other like that! Ivan’s phone pinged incessantly every time he saw Ellie. – Where are you? When will you be back? Why aren’t you answering? Are you with her again? Eventually, he switched off the sound, but Vera began to track his movements. She’d appear at the cafe, in the park, outside Ellie’s flat – wild-eyed and furious. – Vera, please, – Ivan massaged his temples. – This isn’t healthy. – What’s not healthy is you spending more time with another man’s wife than with your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meeting with her childhood friend was now nerve-wracking: would Vera show up? Would she kick off? What would she accuse them of next? – Maybe I should see you less… – Ellie started, but Ivan cut her off: – Absolutely not. You’re not changing your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had made up her mind. If honesty wouldn’t get her what she wanted, maybe something else would. Kieran was sitting in the kitchen when Vera swept in. – Big brother… I have to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She dispensed her lies in careful doses, sniffing in the right moments. Secret meetings. Lingering looks. Ivan holding Ellie’s hand, thinking no one saw. Kieran listened silently, face unreadable, not interrupting or interrogating. When Ellie and Ivan came home an hour later, the living room air was thick and unmoving. Kieran reclined in the armchair, wearing a look that said he was expecting entertainment. – Take a seat, – he gestured at the sofa. – My sister’s just told me a rather fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze. Ivan clenched his jaw. – What the— – She claims she witnessed some rather compromising behaviour. Vera huddled, eyes fixed on the rug. Ivan turned to her so suddenly Vera flinched. – That’s enough, Vera. I’ve put up with your drama for too long. His patience gone, the easy-going Ivan vanished, replaced by a man pushed beyond his limits. – We’re done. Finished. Right now. – You can’t— Tears filled her eyes, properly this time. – It’s her! – Vera jabbed at Ellie. – You always pick her! Always! Ellie waited a beat, letting Vera vent her poison. – You know, Vera, – she said calmly, – if you hadn’t tried to control every second of his life, if you hadn’t made a scene out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to save. Vera grabbed her bag and stormed out, slamming the door. And Kieran laughed – wholeheartedly, head thrown back in relief. – Thank God, finally. He stood, drawing his wife into a hug. – You didn’t believe her, did you? – Ellie mumbled into his shoulder. – Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like watching a brother and sister argue over the last biscuit. Ivan sagged, tension finally easing. – Sorry you had to get dragged into this circus. – Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—her choices are hers. Now, let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold and I don’t reheat it for anyone’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, with relief. Her family remained whole. Her friendship with Ivan survived. And once again, her husband showed why his trust was stronger than any rumour. They headed to the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed under the evening lights, and everything in their world felt right again.

Every Love Has Its Own Shape Annie stepped outside and shivered as the bitter wind cut right through her thin jumper—she’d gone out into the yard without a coat. She walked through the garden gate and simply stood, glancing around, tears she didn’t notice running down her cheeks. “Annie, why are you crying?” She startled at the sound of Mikey, the boy from next door. He was a bit older, and his hair always stuck up at the back. “I’m not crying, it’s just…” Annie lied. Mikey looked at her, then reached into his pocket and handed her three sweets. “Here, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all come running. Now go inside,” he ordered, and she obeyed. “Thank you,” she whispered, “but I’m not hungry… just…” But Mikey seemed to understand and nodded, walking on. In the village, everyone knew Annie’s dad, Andrew, drank. He often visited the only shop in the village, asking the shopkeeper, Valerie, to lend him money until payday. Valerie grumbled but always relented. “How haven’t you lost your job with all the debt you’ve run up?” she’d scold as he hurried out—and spent what little he had on drink. Annie went back inside. She’d recently come home from school, where she was in Year 4. There was rarely much food at home, but she couldn’t admit she was hungry—otherwise, they’d take her away to a children’s home, and she’d heard only bad things about those places. Besides, how could she leave her dad all alone? No, she’d rather stay. Even if the fridge was empty. She’d finished school early that day—her teacher was ill. It was late September, and a biting wind whipped yellow leaves from the trees and swept them across the village. Her old coat and clunky boots barely kept out the damp and cold. Her father was asleep on the sofa, still in his clothes and shoes, snoring, two empty bottles on the table and another under it. Rummaging in the kitchen cupboard, Annie found nothing, not even a crust of bread. She quickly ate Mikey’s sweets, resolved to do her homework, and perched on a stool, tucking her legs underneath. Opening her maths book, she stared at the sums, but couldn’t concentrate. From the window, she watched the wind rock the trees and swirl the yellow leaves. The view included what used to be a vibrant vegetable patch. Now it looked dead—raspberries withered, strawberries vanished, weeds everywhere, and even the old apple tree was dry and bare. Her mum had tended every plant lovingly; the apples were always sweet. But this August, her father had picked them all too soon and sold them at the market, mumbling, “Need the money.” Annie’s dad, Andrew, hadn’t always been this way. He used to be kind and jolly; they’d go for woodland walks and watch films together, drinking tea and eating her mum’s delicious pancakes or jam tarts. But one day, her mother fell ill and went away to hospital—and never came back. “Mum’s got something wrong with her heart,” her father had said, with tears in his eyes. Annie clung to him as he sobbed. “Now your mum will be watching over you from above.” After that, he’d sit for hours staring at her mum’s photograph, then started drinking. Strange, boisterous men began visiting, and Annie would retreat to her tiny room or slip outside to the bench behind the house. With a sigh, Annie got on with her sums. She was clever at lessons and finished them quickly before packing her books away and curling up on her bed. There, her old stuffed bunny, Timmy, always waited—a gift from Mum, worn grey now but still beloved. Annie hugged Timmy close. “Timmy, do you remember my mum?” she whispered. He didn’t answer, but she felt certain he remembered as well as she did. Closing her eyes, the memories came rushing back—bright and cheerful, though a bit blurred. Mum, in an apron, her hair pinned up, kneading dough to bake something wonderful. “Let’s make magic buns together, love.” “What do you mean, Mum? There’s no such thing as magic buns!” “Oh, there is,” Mum would laugh. “We’ll make heart-shaped buns, and if you make a wish when you eat one, it will always come true.” Annie would help, shaping lumpy heart buns. Mum would smile warmly and say, “Every love has its own shape.” Eagerly, they’d wait for the buns to bake, then eat them hot and make wishes as the delicious smell filled the house. When Dad came home, they’d all have tea and magic buns together. Annie wiped away tears stung by those memories. That was then… Now, the ticking clock filled the quiet house, and she felt hollow, missing her mum desperately. “Mum,” she breathed, hugging Timmy tight, “I miss you so much.” On Saturday Annie didn’t have to go to school. After lunch she set off for a walk; her dad was asleep again on the sofa. Pulling on her old jumper under her coat, she headed towards the nearby woods. There was an old house on the edge—Granddad George’s. He’d died two years ago, but his apple and pear orchard remained. Annie had crept in before, climbing the fence to collect fallen apples and pears. “I’m not stealing—just taking what’s wasted,” she reassured herself. She remembered Granddad George a little—old and grey, always kind, giving children apples, pears, or even a toffee from his pocket. This time, as Annie reached the fence, she climbed over, picked two apples, wiped one on her coat and bit into it. “Hey! Who are you?” A woman on the porch startled her, causing her to drop the apples. The woman came closer. “Well? Who are you?” “Annie… I’m not stealing, just picking up these from the ground, I didn’t know anyone lived here…” “I’m George’s granddaughter; I arrived yesterday—I’ll be living here now. How long have you been coming?” “Since Mum died…” Annie’s voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears. The woman pulled her into a hug. “There, there, don’t cry. Come inside; I’m Mrs Anne Carter—though when you’re grown up, folk will call you Anna too.” Mrs Carter instantly guessed at Annie’s hunger and hard life, and brought her into the kitchen. “Take off your boots, love. I cleaned up yesterday, though there’s still unpacking to do. Let me get you something to eat—there’s chicken soup on the hob I made this morning, and some other bits. Looks like we’re neighbours now.” She eyed Annie’s thin shoulders and old, too-short coat. “Is the soup… with meat?” Annie asked hopefully. “Of course, with chicken!” said Mrs Carter, kindly. “Come on, sit down, eat as much as you like. If you want seconds, just ask.” Hungry, Annie didn’t hesitate. She sat at the plaid-covered table, warmed by the cosy kitchen. Mrs Carter put a bowl of soup and bread before her. “Eat up, Annie.” Annie wolfed down the soup and bread in minutes. “Want more?” Mrs Carter asked. “No, thank you, I’m full.” “Then how about some tea?” Mrs Carter smiled, placing a basket covered with a towel on the table. As she pulled back the cloth, the sweet scent of vanilla spread across the room. Inside were heart-shaped buns. Annie took one, bit into it, and her eyes filled with tears. “Buns—just like Mum used to make…” she murmured. After tea and buns, Annie was rosy-cheeked and relaxed. Mrs Carter spoke gently: “So, tell me about your life—where you live, who with. I’ll walk you home afterwards.” “I can go alone—it’s only a few houses up,” Annie mumbled, not wanting her new friend to see their messy home. “Nonsense,” said Mrs Carter firmly. Annie’s house greeted them with silence; her father still lay sprawled on the sofa. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, and dirty laundry were everywhere. Mrs Carter surveyed the scene and shook her head. “I get it now…” she murmured. “Right—let’s tidy up.” She quickly swept the mess from the table, packed bottles in a bag, opened the curtains, shook the rug. Annie suddenly said, “Please, don’t tell anyone about our house. Dad’s good, really—just lost and sad… If people find out, they’ll take me away, and I can’t leave him. He just misses Mum, that’s all…” Mrs Carter hugged her close. “I won’t tell a soul, promise.” Time passed. Annie skipped to school in neatly braided hair, a new coat and boots, her rucksack slung confidently over her shoulder. “Annie, my mum said your dad got remarried—is it true?” asked Molly, her classmate. “You look so pretty, and your hair’s lovely.” “It’s true—now I’ve got a new mum—Auntie Anna!” Annie said proudly, hurrying into school. Andrew had long since stopped drinking, thanks to Mrs Carter. Now they walked together—Andrew, tall and neat, and Anna, graceful, confident, and kind. They always smiled and doted on Annie. The years whizzed by. Now at university, Annie returned for holidays and called out cheerily as she opened the door: “Mum, I’m home!” Anna ran out to hug her. “Welcome back, Professor!” They both laughed, and in the evening Andrew came home from work, smiling and content. Every love truly does have its own shape.

To See With Her Own Eyes After a devastating tragedy—losing her husband and six-year-old daughter in a car accident—Catherine struggled to recover, spending nearly six months in a clinic with only her patient mother by her side. When her mother warned her that her late husband’s business was on the verge of collapse, Catherine pulled herself together and took the reins, determined to carry on his legacy. Yet, no matter how successful she became, she couldn’t escape the grief of losing her little girl. Her mother gently encouraged her to adopt a girl from a children’s home, especially one who had it even harder than her. Though knowing she could never replace her beloved child, Catherine agreed and soon met Anna, a nearly blind girl whose educated parents had abandoned her out of fear and selfishness. At first sight, Catherine felt an immediate maternal connection to the golden-haired, blue-eyed Anna. They became inseparable, with Catherine devoting her life and love to her new daughter, seeking medical treatment to restore Anna’s vision and nurturing her as she grew into a beautiful, grateful young woman. Despite Catherine’s worries about opportunistic suitors, she cautiously approved when Anna fell in love with Anthony, a charming young man. Soon after their engagement, Anna overheard a chilling conversation: Anthony’s mother was pressuring him to marry Anna for her inheritance and then arrange an “accident” for her during a honeymoon in the mountains. Devastated, Anna confided in Catherine, who confronted Anthony, making it clear his scheme had been exposed. The pair fled town, and Catherine focused once again on Anna’s future. After a successful operation restored her vision, Anna discovered a new world of beauty—and love—with Dr. James, the kindhearted surgeon who’d overseen her recovery. Their joyful wedding and the birth of their grey-eyed daughter proved that no matter the darkness, hope could blossom anew when one truly gets the chance to see with her own eyes.