Missing her train, she returned home unannounced and couldnt hold back the tears.
Running late for the train, Emily decided to head back without calling first. The moment she stepped through the front door, the floodgates opened. A chilly October wind whipped sharp raindrops against her face as she watched the train pull away, a crushing wave of frustration washing over her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of regular trips homeshed missed it. *Like something out of a bad dream,* she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform was deserted and eerie, the glow of yellow streetlamps reflecting in puddles, casting strange, wavering paths of light.
“Next trains not till tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk droned, barely glancing up. “Fancy a coach instead?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. *Three hours rattling down potholed roads? No thanks.*
Her phone buzzed in her bagMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. No point causing a fuss. Better to just let herself in quietlyshed always had her own key. The cab raced through empty streets, the city outside the window looking like a stage setflat, unreal.
The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic, but Emily wasnt listening. Inside, an odd sensation swellednot quite anxiety, not quite excitement.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar scents of childhood: roasted potatoes from the third floor, laundry detergent, the faint tang of old wood. But today, something in that familiar symphony felt off.
The key resisted the lock, as if the door itself was reluctant. Inside, 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 could never bring herself to throw away. And yet something wasnt right.
Maybe it was the silence? Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, stickierlike the quiet before a storm. The house seemed to be holding its breath. Emily reached for her laptopwork wouldnt wait. But as she fumbled 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 photographan old one, its corners dog-eared. A young Mumscarcely more than a girllaughing, her head resting on the shoulder of an unfamiliar man. A tear hit the photo before Emily even realised she was crying.
With trembling hands, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was expressive, confidentutterly unfamiliar.
*”My dearest Margaret, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our Forgive me, I cant even bring myself to write itour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Emilys heart hammered. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993 All her childhood, her whole life, scribbled in these pages by a strangers hand.
*”I saw her from afar at school. So serious, with a backpack bigger than she was. I didnt dare approach”*
*”Fifteen years old. I imagine shes grown into a beauty. Margaret, perhaps its time?”*
A lump rose in her throat. The desk lamps glow sharpened the lines of the photograph. She studied the strangers face with sudden hunger. A high forehead, sharp eyes, a slightly mocking smile *Good Lord, she had his nose!* And that tilt of the head
“Emily?” Mums quiet voice made her jump. “Why didnt you”
Margaret froze in the doorway, her face draining of colour as she saw the letters scattered on the floor.
“Mum, what is this?” Emily held up the photo. “Dont say he was just a friend. I can *see* it”
Her mother sank onto the bed. “William William Hargreaves,” she whispered, as if speaking from another room. “I thought I thought this story was over.”
“*Story?*” Emilys voice cracked. “Mum, this is my *life!* Why did you never tell me? Why did *he*”
“Because it had to be this way!” Margarets voice broke. “You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt let us be together.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe same one Emily had missed that morning. Coincidence? Or fate nudging the truth into the light?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened, the room thick with the scent of cold tea and unspoken words.
“He was an English teacher,” Margaret murmured, as if afraid to wake the past. “Fresh out of university, assigned to our school. Handsome, brilliantrecited poetry from memory. Half the girls were in love with him.”
Emily barely recognised her mother. Where was the woman who always played it safe? Here sat someone elseyoung, reckless, eyes alight.
“And then” Margarets jaw tightened. “Then I found out I was pregnant. You cant imagine the uproar! His parents called me a provincial distraction. Mine”
“And you just gave in?” Bitterness seeped into Emilys voice.
“He was transferred. No warning, no discussion. A month later, I met your” She faltered. “Your stepfather. A good man. Dependable.”
*Dependable,* the word echoed in Emilys mind. *Like a sturdy armchair. Like a well-built wardrobe. Like everything in this house.*
“But the letters Why keep them?”
“Because I couldnt throw them away!” For the first time, real pain cracked through. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often But he *wrote.*”
Emily picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”My dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Oakridgea little house on Willow Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, W.”*
“Oakridge,” she said slowly. “Thats barely two hours from here.”
Her mother paled. “Dont even thinkEmily, some pasts are best left”
“*Past?*” Emily 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,” Emily said firmly. “Today.”
For the first time that endless night, she felt certain she was doing the right thing.
Oakridge welcomed her with drizzle and a biting wind. The village seemed frozen in time: cobbled streets, quiet lanes, the kind of place that belonged in a Brontë novel. Willow Lane was on the outskirts. Emily walked slowly, checking house numbers, her pulse so loud it mightve echoed down the street.
Number 17. A tidy cottage, curtains drawn, yellow asters by the gate. The latch wasnt locked.
*What do I even say?* she wondered. *”Hello, Im your daughter?”*
But the decision was made for her.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
“Margaret?” he breathed.
“No not Margaret.”
“Im Emily,” her voice shook. “Emily Carter though Im not so sure about the surname now.”
William Hargreaves went very still, gripping the porch railing.
“Good Lord,” was all he managed.
Inside, the house smelled of old books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall. Above the mantela print of Turners *Rain, Steam and Speed*, her favourite painting since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” William said, fumbling with teacups. “But I imagined it a thousand 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 regret of my life.”
The raw pain in his voice made her chest ache.
“Every year,” he said softly, “on your birthday, 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 *Alice in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he lifted a worn volume. “*The Little Prince* with original illustrationsseven. Things Id have read to you.”
She traced the spines. Thirty years of unwritten conversations, of unshared stories.
“And this” He pulled out a battered journal. “Your first published piece. *Letters
