The silence outside the window was finally broken by her voice—so faint, it almost didn’t belong to her, like an echo from another lifetime.
“Good morning,” she murmured, the words trembling as if afraid to disrupt the fragile quiet. They came from another era, one where mornings were filled with a child’s laughter, the clatter of pots, and tiny hands tugging her toward the window to show off a pea plant stretching toward the sun in an old jam jar.
Emily opened her eyes to the dim light of dawn. The ceiling overhead was gray, like the faded skies of her little seaside town. The room was warm, but a draft nudged the curtain—she’d left the window open again. Or maybe she’d done it on purpose, hoping to catch a familiar voice, footsteps, or the slam of a door. She lay there, staring at the cracks in the plaster, searching for answers. Hunger pinched her stomach. She sat up, listening—the flat breathed loneliness back at her, stubborn and still, as if it had claimed the space long before she ever did.
The kitchen was frozen in time. A mug stained with coffee sat on the sill like a silent witness to yesterday. On the cutting board lay half a pear, browning at the edges—she couldn’t recall when she’d started slicing it, only the moment she froze, as if something inside her had snapped. The fridge held a photo: a six-year-old boy in a pirate costume, grinning so wide it seemed he might speak any second, his eyes sparkling like sunlight on the sea.
She hadn’t touched the picture in two years. Her fingers hovered over it, as if afraid to smudge his smile. It clung to the fridge with a magnet from the local chemist—a bitter irony. They’d gone there to get his eyes checked—he’d said the letters in his books “jumped around.” It hadn’t ended at the hospital, or with a diagnosis. It ended on a road no map could trace, one no app could navigate.
By the door sat his trainers. Small, with frayed laces, dust settled over them like a thin layer of time. To anyone else, they’d look like clutter. To her, they were relics. She tiptoed past them, holding her breath, as if even a glance might shatter the delicate balance of her morning. She’d meant to pack them away—but couldn’t. Just fabric and rubber, yet they held an entire world. As if someone might still walk in and ask, “Mum, where’re my trainers?” And she needed to be ready—not for him, but for herself.
She made tea. No sugar, no honey—just hot water and a teabag. It tasted bitter, as if it had soaked up her thoughts. Outside, the town carried on, indifferent as the sea after a storm—turmoil beneath, calm on the surface. Inside, everything felt unplugged, save for the occasional flicker of memory keeping a dim light alive.
Once, she’d taught literature at the local school. Loved Dickens—not for the tragedy, but the truth. The way he found life in the darkest corners, the pauses heavy with the unspoken. After the loss, she left. Took leave, then never went back. At first, she couldn’t. Then she saw no point.
Last summer, a friend dragged her to a support group. Emily went three times. Remembered the sterile hall, the smell of vending-machine coffee overpowering everything—even the faint scent of someone’s aftershave, even her own thoughts. Remembered the woman in the blue jumper, mourning her daughter, forcing smiles as if apologizing for her grief. The bloke in the hoodie, silent, fiddling with his backpack strap like he wanted to vanish into it. No one screamed, but the air trembled, thin as film over a flame. Emily left—her grief felt “wrong.” As if she didn’t belong among the others’ sorrows. As if she’d lost something no one else could see.
She wrote letters. Unsaved, tucked in a folder on her laptop labeled “Drafts.” Wrote to him. “You’d be in Year 3 now… Probably still hating porridge. We’d argue every morning. I’d still be tying your laces, just in case you hadn’t learned. You—my little pirate. My laughter in the grass. My ‘Mum, look, a ship!’ My…” Sometimes, she stopped mid-sentence. A full stop. Then silence. No edits, no finishing the thought. Just her breath against the screen and the emptiness behind her.
Today, her voice sounded different. Not ragged, not aching—just weary, but steady. As if something had cracked inside, letting in light.
Suddenly, Emily wanted to go out. Walk along the pier. No purpose. Just breathe. Her body, stiff from years of grief, remembered how to move. She threw on her coat, laced her boots, then paused at the door. The floor creaked; the clock ticked like the house’s heartbeat. Then she turned back, took the photo from the fridge. Removed the magnet. Ran her thumb over it, as if brushing his cheek.
“Come on, pirate. Time to live a little,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. There was strength in it—or hope, nearly forgotten.
She stepped outside, shutting the door softly behind her. And for the first time in years, she closed the window. Not out of fear. Just because, finally, she could.
