Missing the train, she went home without warning and couldnt hold back her tears.
Running late, Harriet decided to return without calling. The moment she stepped inside, the tears came. A cold October wind whipped sharp raindrops against her face. Harriet watched the train pull away, a wave of regret washing over her. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of regular trips homeshed missed it. *Like a bad dream*, she thought, automatically smoothing a loose strand of hair. The platform was empty and eerie, yellow lamplight reflecting in puddles, casting strange paths of light.
*Next trains not till tomorrow morning*, the ticket clerk said flatly, not even looking up. *Fancy the coach instead?*
*The coach?* Harriet scoffed. *Three hours on a bumpy road? No, thanks.*
Her phone buzzedMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why worry her? Better just to go homeshe always had her keys. The taxi sped through quiet streets, the city outside the window like a stage setflat, unreal.
The driver muttered about the weather and traffic, but Harriet tuned him out. Inside, something unfamiliar grewneither dread nor joy.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled childhood smellsthird-floor roast potatoes, laundry powder, the faint scent of aged wood. But today, something felt off, like a wrong note in a familiar tune.
The key turned stiffly, as if the door resisted. The hall was dark and silenther parents already asleep. Tiptoeing to her room, she flicked on the desk lamp. Everything was as she left itbookshelves, her old desk, the plush bear on the bed, a relic Mum couldnt part with. But something wasnt right. Something had shifted.
Maybe it was the silencenot the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Harriet pulled out her laptopwork never sleptbut as she reached for the socket, her hand brushed a small box. It slipped off the shelf, spilling its contents.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photoold, corners bent. A young Mumhardly more than a girllaughing, leaning into a strangers shoulder. The first tear fell before she even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, Harriet opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, steadycompletely unfamiliar.
*Dearest Vera, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our* She stopped. *Our daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?* Her pulse raced. She grabbed another, then another. Dates1988, 1990, 1993 Her whole childhood, her whole life, written in these letters by a strangers hand.
*saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than her. I couldnt bring myself to approach*
*fifteen now. I imagine the beauty shes become. Vera, perhaps the time has come?*
A lump formed in her throat. Under the lamplight, the photo revealed a face she studied hungrily. A high forehead, sharp eyes, a smile half-mocking. *God, she had his nose.* Even the way he tilted his head
*Harriet?* Mums quiet voice made her jump. *Why didnt you*
Vera froze in the doorway, staring at the letters strewn across the floor. The colour drained from her face.
*Mum, what is this?* Harriet held up the photo. *Dont say he was just a friend. I can see itI can feel it.*
Her mother sank onto the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
*William. William Edward Hartley.* Her voice was hollow, distant. *I thought this story would stay buried*
*A story?* Harriet nearly hissed. *Mum, this is my* life*! Why didnt you tell me? Why did hewhy did everyone*
*Because we had to!* Pain cracked through her words. *You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt let us be together.*
A heavy silence settled, thick as fabric. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe same one shed missed. Coincidence? Or fate deciding the truth had waited long enough?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened, the room thick with cold tea and unspoken words.
*He was an English teacher,* Vera murmured, as if afraid to scare the memories away. *Fresh out of university, assigned to our school. Handsome, charming, reciting poetry from memory Half the girls were in love.*
Harriet barely recognised her. Where was the steady, practical woman she knew? Here sat someone elseyoung, in love, eyes alight.
*Then I realised I was pregnant,* her mother whispered. *You cant imagine the uproar. His parents called it “beneath him.” Mine swore Id shamed them*
*So you just gave up?* Bitterness seeped into Harriets voice.
*He was transferred. No discussion. A month later, I met your* She faltered. *your dad. A good man. Reliable.*
*Reliable.* The word echoed in Harriets mind. *Like an old sofa. Like a cupboard. Like everything in this house.*
*But the letters Why keep them?*
*Because I couldnt throw them away!* For the first time, real anguish broke through. *They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less but he never stopped.*
Harriet picked up the last one. Three years old.
*Dearest Vera, Ive moved to Whitstable. Bought a cottage on Willow Lane. Maybe one day Yours always, W.*
*Whitstable,* she said slowly. *Thats only four hours away.*
Her mother paled.
*Dont even think about it. Harriet, some doors should stay shut.*
*Shut?* Harriet stood. *Mum, this isnt the past. Its* now. *My now. And I have a right to know.*
Outside, dawn finally broke. A new day demanded new choices.
*Im going,* she said firmly. *Today.*
And for the first time that endless night, she knew she was doing the right thing.
Whitstable greeted her with a biting wind and drizzle. The little seaside town felt frozen in timequaint cottages, quiet lanes, like something from a Brontë novel.
Willow Lane was on the outskirts. Harriet walked slowly, checking house numbers. Her heart pounded so loudly she swore the whole street could hear.
Number 17. Neat, small, with curtains drawn and yellow asters in the front garden. The gate was unlocked.
*What do I even say?* she wondered. *Hi, 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.
*Vera?* he breathed.
*No not Vera.*
*Im Harriet,* her voice shook. *Harriet Anne though Im not sure about the middle name now.*
William Edward Hartley went pale, gripping the railing.
*God* was all he managed. *Come in. Please.*
The house smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall. Above the fireplacea print of *The Lady of Shalott*, her favourite painting since childhood.
*I always knew this day would come,* William said, fumbling with mugs. *But I imagined it a thousand different ways*
*Why didnt you fight for us?* The question slipped out.
He stilled, kettle in hand. *Because I was weak,* he said simply. *Because I believed it was better that way. The greatest mistake of my life.*
The raw pain in his voice twisted something in her chest.
*Every birthday,* he said softly, *I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.*
He opened a door. Harriet gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
*First edition *Alice in Wonderland*for your fifth,* he said, lifting one tenderly. *”The Little Prince* with original illustrationsseven I chose what Id have read to you.*
She ran a finger over the spines. Thirty years of conversations never had, thirty years of stories never shared.
*And this* he pulled out a worn volume, *your first published story. Literary review, “Letters to Nowhere.” I recognised your styleyou write like I do.*
*You followed my work?* She didnt know whether to be furious or weep.
*Not followed. Just lived alongside you. Like a shadow, like a reflection in a crooked mirror.*
They talked until evening. About books and
