The Calm Before the Storm
In a sleepy, forgotten village where dusty lanes stretched alongside endless fields, the air trembled with heat, like a taut string ready to snap. Five days without rain had turned everything into a parched, cracked wasteland. The pavement radiated warmth like smouldering coal, and the silence lay thick, as if it could be sliced with a knife. Every little thing grated on the nerves—the creak of shutters, the smell of burnt oil from the neighbour’s kitchen, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. Even the buzz of a fly battering against the windowpane sounded like a warning bell, as though it sensed the coming storm before the people did.
Elizabeth woke in the dead of night, certain someone was there beside her. Not a gaze, but a weight—something almost tangible, like a shadow lurking in the corner. She lay still, listening to the quiet of her small flat. Stifling. She hadn’t opened the windows—night in this village didn’t bring coolness, only the distant bark of dogs, drunken chatter, and the stale scent of cheap cigarettes. The air hung heavy, like the inside of an abandoned shed. Her body burned, not from the heat but from something unseen, something that had gathered inside her like dust in the corners.
A tap dripped in the kitchen. Elizabeth sat up, straining to hear. Drip. Silence. Drip again. She rose, padding barefoot across the floor, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards as though afraid to wake someone—though she knew she was alone. A shattered teacup lay on the tiles, shards sharp as fresh wounds. Beside it, a puddle of water—not drops, but a full spill, as if someone had tipped a glass. Round, still, unsettling. Elizabeth froze. She lived alone. Always had. But in that moment, her certainty splintered.
She switched off the light and returned to bed. Sleep wouldn’t come. The sheets clung to her skin; the pillow felt like hot stone. She tossed and turned, chasing a breeze that didn’t exist. Something had settled inside her—not a voice, not a figure, but a shadow. As if someone stood silent beside her, and that silence was louder than any words. It wasn’t frightening, but it wore her down, like a slow crack spreading across glass.
Morning came, and she made soup. She left the pot to cool, wiped the stove—not because it was dirty, but to keep her hands busy. Then she sat by the window with an old notebook, its cover stained and its corners curled. Inside were shopping lists, scraps of poetry from her youth, notes, recipes, dreams. There was even a sketch—a teapot with shaky steam, drawn ten years ago. Today, she turned to a fresh page and wrote: *No one comes. No one asks. But I’m still here.* Then she crossed it out, slowly, as though erasing a part of herself. The ink smudged; the paper felt rough under her fingers, resisting.
She sat there a long time. Listening to the hum of the fridge, the slam of the front door. Someone had come home. Not to her. Again. Footsteps on the stairs grew fainter each year. The world moved on without looking back.
Elizabeth walked to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting the blanket over her husband, Geoffrey. He didn’t stir. His breathing was laboured, uneven—but familiar. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. That meant he still felt. Still lived. And she was there. As long as they had this *together*, there was still meaning.
She lay beside him, not to sleep, but just to be close. To breathe in time, even for a little while. Even just this fragile, shared silence.
A few days later, she gathered the courage to call her daughter. She paced the kitchen, rearranged dishes, wiped the already-clean sink, stared at the phone like it was a grenade. With trembling fingers, she dialled, dreading coldness, haste, indifference.
*Mum? Is everything alright?*
*Nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to hear your voice.*
*Mum, I’m swamped. I’ll call you back, yeah?*
*Of course, love. Of course.*
Her heart clenched, but she kept her voice steady. After the call, she sat with her face in her hands, then stood and filled the kettle, as if boiling water could dull the emptiness.
But the call came back. Three hours later. No preamble.
*Mum, how are you?*
And Elizabeth wept. Not from pain. Because someone had asked. Just… asked. Suddenly, she realised how much she’d needed those words—that simple *How are you?*
A week later, a kitten arrived. Brought by her granddaughter. Tiny, shivering, with ears too big for its head and eyes full of wonder.
*Gran, this is for you. So you’re not lonely. He’s scared, you’re alone. You’ll suit each other.*
Elizabeth cradled the kitten like a delicate vase. And in her chest, warmth spread—as if someone had untied an old, hardened knot.
The kitten was ginger, with long legs and a comical face, as if perpetually surprised by the world. The first night, it hid beneath a chair; by morning, it was curled on her blanket by her feet. They named him Marmalade. Didn’t matter that he was a tom. Just Marmalade. Because he was warm, soft, and always close. His purr was loud enough to fill the silence, and in that sound was something alive, something real.
Now, in the mornings, Elizabeth talks again. First to Marmalade—asking how he slept, reminding him of his bowl by the window. Then to Geoffrey—reading him the news, scolding him for leaving his things about. Then to herself—no longer a whisper, but aloud, as if checking she still had a voice. And finally, to those who still come. Who still ask. The neighbour sometimes. The postman. Even the shadow at the window.
She never fixed the phone. It didn’t matter. Real words aren’t lost in the rush. They live in pauses, in glances, in touches. And in a small, warm bundle that comes to you in the morning, just when you need it most.
