**Silence by the Window**
For the first time in years, her voice broke through the quiet. It was faint, almost foreign, like an echo from a distant past:
“Good morning.”
The words trembled, as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness. They belonged to another life—one where mornings were filled with children’s laughter, the clatter of a saucepan lid, and small hands tugging her toward the window to show how the peas in the old jam jar were stretching toward the sun.
Emily opened her eyes in the dim light. The ceiling above her was grey, like the faded skies over her coastal town. The room was warm, but a lazy draft stirred the edge of the curtains—she’d left the window open again. Or perhaps on purpose, as if waiting for a familiar voice to drift in from the street. Or footsteps. Or the sound of the door. She lay there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, searching for an answer—how to escape this emptiness. A sharp pang of hunger nudged her. She sat up, listening: the flat breathed with loneliness, stubborn and quiet, as if it had claimed her before she could claim herself.
The kitchen was frozen in time. A mug with coffee stains sat on the windowsill like a silent witness to yesterday. On the chopping board lay half a pear, browned and forgotten—Emily couldn’t recall when she’d started cutting it, but she remembered the moment she froze, as if something inside her had snapped. On the fridge, a photograph: a boy of about six, dressed in a bright pirate costume, grinning as if he might start talking any second, his eyes sparkling like the sea in sunlight.
She hadn’t touched the photo in over two years. Her fingers would reach—then stop, as if afraid to smudge his smile. The picture was held by a magnet from the local chemist—a bitter irony. They’d gone there to have his eyes checked—he said the letters in his book “jumped.” But it hadn’t ended in a clinic. Or a diagnosis. It had ended on a road not found on any map, one no app could navigate.
By the door sat his trainers. Small, with frayed laces. A fine layer of dust coated them like time settling. To anyone else, they might seem forgotten junk—to her, they were relics. She stepped around them, holding her breath, as if one careless glance might shatter the fragile balance of her morning. She’d meant to put them away—but never could. Just shoes, a bit of fabric and rubber. But inside them, an entire universe. As if someone might walk back in and ask, *”Mum, where are my trainers?”* And she had to be ready—not for him, but for herself.
She made tea. No sugar, no honey—just black tea and boiling water. The drink tasted bitter, as if it had soaked up her thoughts. Outside, the town carried on—indifferent, like the sea after a storm, where chaos still lurked beneath the surface while the waves lay calm. Inside her, everything remained still, like a plug pulled from the socket, with only 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 for the truth in it. For finding life in the darkest corners. For the pauses that held everything too heavy to speak aloud. After the loss, she’d left. Took leave, then never returned. At first, she couldn’t. Then, she saw no point.
Last summer, a friend had invited her to a support group. Emily went three times. She remembered the cold hall with white walls, the smell of cheap coffee from the vending machine drowning out everything—even the faint trace of another’s cologne, even her own thoughts. A woman in a blue jumper, who’d lost her daughter, spoke with a strained smile, as if apologising for her grief. A bloke in a hoodie stayed silent, fiddling with his backpack strap, looking as though he wanted to disappear into it. No one shouted, but the air trembled like a film over flames. Emily left—her pain felt “wrong.” As if she didn’t deserve a place among the other mourners. As if she’d lost something only she could see.
She’d written letters. Unsaved, tucked in a folder on her computer labelled *”Drafts.”* Written to him. *”You’d be in Year Three by now… Probably still hating porridge. We’d argue about it every morning. I’d still be tying your laces if you hadn’t learned. You—my little pirate. My laughter in the grass. My ‘Mum, look, a ship!’ You were my…”* Sometimes she’d stop mid-sentence. Full stop. Silence. No edits, no continuation. Just her breath against the screen and the void behind her.
Today, her voice sounded different. No strain, no sorrow—just a weary, steady resolve. As if something inside had cracked, letting a sliver of light through.
Suddenly, Emily wanted to go out. Walk along the promenade. No destination. Just to breathe. Her body, stiff from years of holding pain, remembered how to move. She flung on her coat, tugged on her boots, paused at the door. The floor creaked; the clock ticked like the house’s pulse. Then she turned to the fridge. Took down the photo. Removed the magnet. Ran her thumb over the image as though brushing his cheek.
“Come on, my pirate. Time to live a little,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. There was strength in it—or hope, nearly forgotten.
She stepped out, closing the door softly behind her. And for the first time in years, she shut the window. Not out of fear. Simply because she finally knew—now, she could.
