Missing the train, she returned home unannounced and couldn’t hold back her tears.
Running late, Emily decided to head back without calling. The moment she stepped through the door, the tears came uncontrollably. A sharp October wind whipped rain against her face as she watched the departing train, a hollow ache swelling inside her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of routine trips homeshe had missed it. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform stood empty and eerie, yellow lamplight shimmering in puddles, casting strange glowing paths.
“Next train isnt till tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk said flatly, barely glancing up. “Theres always the coach?”
Emily frowned. *Three hours rattling down country lanes? No thanks.*
Her phone buzzedMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why worry her? Better to just go home. She still had her keys. The taxi sped through quiet city streets, the world outside the window looking like a stage setunreal, flat.
The driver muttered about the weather and traffic, but Emily barely listened. Inside her grew a strange feelingnot quite dread, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled familiar childhood scents: roast potatoes from the third floor, laundry powder, the faint tang of worn wood. But today, the usual symphony felt off, like a discordant note.
The key stuck in the lock, as if the door resisted. The hallway was dark and silenther parents must have gone to bed. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything lay as it always had: bookshelves, her old study desk, the threadbare teddy on the beda relic Mum refused to part with. Yet something was different. Something intangible had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Emily pulled her laptop from her bagwork wouldnt wait. But as she reached for the socket, her hand brushed against a small box. It tumbled from the shelf, spilling its contents across the floor.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, its corners curled. A young Mum, barely more than a girl, laughing as she leaned into a strangers shoulder. The first tear fell before Emily even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwritingbold, assuredwas utterly unfamiliar.
*”My dearest Evelyn, 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 writeof our 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, scrawled in a strangers hand.
*”saw her from afar near the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I couldnt bring myself to approach”*
*”fifteen years old. I imagine what a beauty shes become. Evelyn, perhaps the time has come?”*
A lump formed in her throat. The lamplight revealed the strangers face in the photographhigh forehead, intelligent eyes, a faintly mocking smile. *Good Lord, she had his nose.* That slight tilt of the head
“Emily?” Mums quiet voice made her jump. “Why didnt you”
Evelyn froze in the doorway, staring at the scattered letters. The colour drained from her face.
“Mum, what *is* this?” Emily held up the photo. “Dont say he was just a friend. I can *see*I can *feel*”
Mum sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
“Thomas Thomas William Harrow,” she said faintly, as if speaking from another room. “I thought this would stay buried”
“Buried?” Emily hissed. “Mum, this is my *life*! Why didnt you tell me? Why did *he*why did *everyone*”
“Because we had to!” Pain cracked Mums voice. “You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt let us be together.”
Silence draped the room like thick fabric. Somewhere in the distance, a train rattledthe very one Emily had missed that day. Coincidence? Or had fate decided the truth was due?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened; inside, the air hung heavy with cold tea and unspoken words.
“He taught literature,” Evelyn murmured, as if afraid to frighten the memories away. “Assigned to our school after university. Young, handsome, reciting poetry from memory Half the girls were in love.”
Emily studied her mother and saw a stranger. Where was the eternal composure? Before her sat a different womanyoung, smitten, eyes burning.
“And then” Mum bit her lip. “Then I realised I was expecting. Youve no idea what followed. His parents called it beneath him, mine spoke of shame”
“And you just gave up?” Bitterness seeped into Emilys voice.
“He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, they introduced me to your” She faltered. “To Robert. A good man. Dependable.”
*Dependable*, echoed in Emilys mind. *Like an old sofa. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this house.*
“But the letters Why keep them?”
“Because I *couldnt* throw them away!” For the first time that night, raw pain broke through. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less But he wrote.”
Emily picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”My dearest Evelyn, Ive moved to Willowbrook, bought a house on Linden Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, T.”*
“Willowbrook,” Emily said slowly. “Thats barely two hours from here.”
Mum paled. “Dont even thinkEmily, dont dig up the past”
“The *past*?” Emily 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,” Emily said firmly. “Today.”
For the first time in that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Willowbrook greeted her with drizzle and a biting wind. The village seemed frozen in time: red-brick cottages, few pedestrians, quiet lanes straight from a rural novel.
Linden Lane lay on the outskirts. Emily walked slowly, eyes fixed on house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly it might have echoed down the street.
Number 17. Small, neat, with curtains drawn and yellow chrysanthemums in the front garden. The gate wasnt locked.
*What do I even say?* she wondered. *Hello, Im your daughter?*
But she didnt have to decide.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
“Evelyn?” he whispered.
“No not Evelyn.”
“Im Emily,” her voice shook. “Emily Grace though Im not sure about the surname now.”
Thomas William Harrow went white, 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, crammed with volumes. Above the fireplace hung a print of Turners *The Fighting Temeraire*Emilys favourite painting since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” Thomas fumbled with the mugs. “But I imagined it a thousand different ways”
“Why didnt you fight for us?” The question tumbled out.
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 Emilys chest.
“Every birthday,” he said, staring past her, “I bought you a gift. Theyre all here”
He opened a door. Emily gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
“First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he lifted the top book gently. “*The Little Prince*, illustratedfor your seventh I chose what Id have read to you.”
Emily trailed her fingers over the spines. Thirty years of unspoken conversations, of stories never shared.
“And this” he pulled out a worn volume, “your first published piece. *Letters to Nowhere*. I recognised your styleyou write like I do.”
“You followed my work?” She didnt know whether to be angry or
