Silence hung over the house like a shroud. It was so complete that George did not even realise at first what had roused him. No alarm clock, no clatter in the kitchen, no rush of water from the bathnothing but the low hum of the old fridge against the wall and the distant rumble of London beyond the window.
He lay there, listening to that hush. Just yesterday the home had been alive with the creak of floorboards under Ethels brisk steps, the rustle of pages from the novel she read in the armchair, even the irritating scrape of a cats claws on the sofa fabric. Now the cat had gone with her, and the sofa sat empty, alien.
The first impulse that rose was to seize his phone and type a frantic message to a mate: Meet me at the pub, urgent! and then, over a pint of bitter, unload his hurt, bitterness, and rage onto friends. He imagined describing her, but he barred himself from even thinking of it. A lower, more selfish urge tugged at himto find anyone, anyone at all, just for a night, to fill the yawning void beside him. A quick, selfdestructive path, familiar and tempting.
Instead, George rose, shuffled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. While the water boiled, his eyes fell upon the hall shelf where Ethels favourite woolen shawl still lay. An axe in the head, he recalled a line from an article he had read a week earlier, at the height of his despair.
So, chap, its time to pull the axe out, he muttered to himself.
He began with the small things. He gathered every item she had left behind: the shawl, the forgotten book, a driedout ink bottle, a mug decorated with kittens. He placed them neatly in a cardboard box. He did not fling or break them, as resentment might have urged, but packed them with care and carried the box down to the cellar. One day he would return them to her, without drama or blame. He then laundered the bedding, airing out the lingering scent of her perfume. He deleted the shared photographs from his phone and emptied the bin. Each act felt like peeling away a dirty bandage from a woundpainful, yet necessary.
Time itself became a weight on his shoulders, a heavy load that pressed down. It was the time that had once been spent on shared dinners, trips to the cinema, idle yet endearing conversations about nothing at all. Now he needed to fill it, not with drink or selfpity, but with himself.
He bought a membership at the local gym. The first sessions were hell. He pushed himself to the point of nausea, venting his anger, disappointment, and grief on the machines. Drops of sweat on the rubber floor looked like tears. Yet with each week his body grew stronger, his mind calmer.
He enrolled in a French classsomething they had always wanted to try but had kept postponing. Now he attended alone. Complex grammar structures crowded out the intrusive thoughts. He even traveled to a seaside town in Kent that Ethel had refused to visit. Sitting on the pier at sunset, he felt for the first time in months a light, gentle melancholy and a flicker of freedom.
There were hard days, too. In the night memories would wake him: Ethels laugh, head thrown back, or their petty arguments over trivial matters. He did not chase them away. He simply lay and let the pain wash over him, as the article had advised, allowing it to rise and then recede like a tide. Occasionally he would drive out of the city, climb a deserted hill and shout at the top of his lungs until his voice cracked, until the coveted silence settled inside him.
One afternoon, while sorting old papers, he found their wedding photograph. George expected a surge of sorrow or rage. Instead, he looked at the two smiling strangers and thought, That was and it was beautifulbut its over.
No bitterness lingered, no yearning to turn back. Only a soft nostalgia and the understanding that that chapter of his life had closed.
That evening he met his mates at the local pub. They laughed, shared news, made plans. George realised he had not thought of Ethel once the whole night. He was simply present, whole, though a scar still marked his soul, it was one that had begun to heal.
He caught his reflection in the café windowlean, steady, eyes clear. He hadnt seen himself like that in years, perhaps never again.
The axe had been pulled out. The wound had knit. And he felt ready, at last, to walk onward, light of baggage. The life he had always imagined was just beginning.
Then, abruptly, a foul stench assaulted his nostrils. George barely grasped what was happening. The room swam, slow as fog lifting. He lay on the sofa, clothes unchanged, speckled with crumbs and stains of unknown origin.
He tried to sit, and the world tipped. His head throbbed. A cold wave of terror washed over him.
The bright, clean home of his memory was gone. In its place was a squalid flat. Empty beer and vodka bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers. An ashtray choked with cigarettes sat on the table. Stained clothes were strewn about, and the television displayed the idle screen of a latenight show.
With great effort he stumbled to the bathroom, clutching at the tiles. The harsh light blinded his eyes. Then he saw himself in the mirrora scruffy, unshaven man with a swollen, bruised face, eyes bloodshot, full of shame and emptiness. It was him. George.
All the clarity, the strength, the sense of wholeness he had felt in the dream evaporated, leaving only a bitter, nauseating hangover and a deeper, more terrifying soulhangover.
It had all been a dream. The journeythe packed boxes, the gym, the French lessons, the pier sunsetwas merely the minds clever trick to flee an unbearable reality. A escape that seemed to last an eternity, but in truth spanned a single night.
He touched his face in the mirror. His skin was oily, his stubble prickled his fingertips. This was his present: not the successful, trim gentleman he imagined, but a downcast figure trying to drown his pain in cheap spirits and selfdeception.
Silence in the flat struck again, louder than before. No longer the hush of anticipation and new beginnings, but the deafening quiet of a deadend. The most terrifying sound in that silence was the ticking of the clock, mercilessly counting the time he was wasting.
The dream was not a cure. It was a mirror held up to his real face. The reflection was so repellent that he wanted to shut his eyes and run away. Yet there was nowhere to run.
George stood, stared at himself, and was struck by shock. The dishevelled man in the grubby Tshirt, the chaos around himthere was a sour taste in his mouth and a burnt emptiness in his chest. The dream had seemed vivid, real and the waking world was cruel.
He snatched the nearest empty bottle from the floor and hurled it into the rubbish bin. It shattered with a clang. He did the same with another, then a third. He did not scream, did not weep. He faced the wreckage of his life with a stonecold stare.
He gathered the rubbish, hauled out bags of bottles and shards. He threw open the window, letting cold, fresh air sweep away the stale stench of alcohol and despair. He brewed a strong cup of tea, his hands trembling.
He turned again to the mirror. The eyes were still weary, still hurt. Yet, deep within those clouded pools, a faint gleam glimmereda sliver of light in a dirty puddle. Not hope, but a cold, white fury aimed at himself.
He reached for his phone, scrolled through contacts, and found the number of an old schoolmate, Thomas, who had offered his services as a counsellor a month earlier. George had saved the number but never dared to call. Now he dialed.
Thomas? his voice cracked like an old hinge. I need your help.
He hung up, inhaled deeply. The path that had haunted him in the dream was a mirage, but it pointed a direction. George understood that to become the clean, strong man from his nightvision, he would have to walk through this hellnot in sleep, but in waking life.
His first step would not be to the gym or to a language class. It would be the shower, washing away yesterdays grime, scrubbing off the unshaven, bruised face. And to begin. From the very start. Tomorrow.
