The Grey Mouse
Abigail peeked out the window. Little kids were playing in the park, their mums chatting nearby, keeping an eye on them. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
She slipped on her black boots, a brown coat, a matching knitted hat, grabbed her black leather handbag, and stepped out of her flat. She paused, listening for footsteps or voices on the stairs, then locked the door and headed down.
From a distance, she could’ve passed for an old woman. Up close, you’d guess she was around fifty, maybe younger. Her face was plain—small eyes, thin lips, the kind you’d forget seconds after looking away.
She’d moved into this building twenty-five years ago. Never spoke to anyone, kept to herself. At first, neighbours would knock, asking to borrow an onion or a cup of flour when they couldn’t pop to the shop. Abigail would open the door just enough for the chain, if she opened it at all, say she had nothing to spare, and shut it again. Soon, people stopped bothering.
No one ever saw visitors. It was like she was utterly alone in the world—no wonder she was so skittish.
She did have family, though. A younger sister lived in a little market town up north with her husband and kids. But Abigail never kept in touch. Maybe because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who knows?
Strangers rarely set foot in her flat—just the occasional plumber or gas inspector. She’d always ask for ID, study it closely, sometimes even ring the office to double-check their credentials.
Never caused trouble. Never said a harsh word, never gossiped, never really spoke at all. A quick hello, then she’d walk on, head down.
Behind her back, people called her a “blue stocking,” a grey mouse, or an old maid. She’d worked all her life in the same accounting office, hunched over her desk, serious and focused. Always did her job right, always on time—management respected that. Wore the same dark, plain dress every day, her hair scraped back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child. Just for herself. That’s when the only man in her life appeared—a lorry driver named Edward. He’d drop by now and then. She’d buy him shirts he’d never take home, just leave at her place. Married, of course.
Whether his wife found out or some “helpful” colleague tipped her off, Edward quit two months later and vanished. Abigail never got pregnant. That was her one and only love.
She convinced herself it was for the best. Hard enough raising a child alone, and who knew how the boy might turn out? A girl? Out of the question. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world?
Once, at the shops, she’d filled a bag with groceries. A man offered to carry it home for her.
“I can manage,” she said, shooting him a look that sent him backing off instantly.
*”As if. Help me, then bash me over the head and rob me blind. Not today,”* she thought on her way home.
No one could trick her. She did sums in her head like a human calculator. Cashiers would ring up her bill, and she’d know straight away if they’d shortchanged her. No shouting, just a cold stare until they handed back the difference.
One Saturday morning, close to Christmas, her doorbell rang. She waited, listening. It rang again. Peering through the peephole, she froze—for a second, she thought it was her sister standing there.
“Who is it?” Abigail asked, her heart oddly jumpy.
“Aunt Abby, it’s me—Emily. Your niece.” The voice was muffled by the door.
“Niece? What do you want?” Suspicion dripped from her words.
*”How’d she even find me? And why?”* Then she remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister and mum to show off her new flat and life. Must’ve given the address then. Just in case. All these years, no one from home had bothered her. She hadn’t even known she *had* a niece. So her sister married, had a girl. The thought made her lips twist.
She never went back. Nothing to boast about.
“Aunt Abby, please—I need to talk to you,” Emily pleaded.
Maybe it was the tremor in her voice, maybe curiosity, but Abigail broke her own rule and opened the door.
“What’s this about?” she demanded from the threshold.
She studied the girl—a carbon copy of her sister, just taller, with the same grey eyes but warmer, brighter. Dark curls escaped from under her hat.
Emily waited, hoping for an invite inside. When none came, she rushed on, afraid the door might slam shut.
“Aunt Abby, I’ve got nowhere else to go. My son—he’s really ill. We took him to London, to a specialist. He needs an operation, urgently.” She paused, but Abigail just stared.
“It’s the money—I’ve asked everyone, but it’s too much. Mum said you might help. So I came.” Her voice dropped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. If you could see him—” She covered her face, swaying, tears spilling.
Something in Abigail’s chest twitched at the girl’s tears, at the words about her son. She pictured *her* child suffering, *her* begging for help. Her heart squeezed—for herself, for Emily, for a boy she’d never met.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside, then pointedly eyed Emily’s snow-damp boots.
“Wait here.” She vanished into the flat.
No offer to take off her coat. Emily hovered in the hallway, then peeked into the living room.
She’d only seen places like this in films—bright, modern, pristine. *Was it even safe to breathe in here?* She perched on the edge of a footstool. Her mum had warned her: *Aunt Abby’s odd, lives alone, probably won’t help.* But who else was there? *She’ll say no. Of course she will.*
“It’s lovely here,” Emily blurted when Abigail returned.
“Take this. For your boy.” Abigail held out a thick envelope. “It’s the full amount. Go on.” She nudged it forward when Emily hesitated.
Emily stood, took it like it might explode, clutched it to her chest.
“Thank you!” she whispered, disbelieving.
“How old is he?” Abigail asked flatly.
“Two years, three months. He’s so sweet, so clever—you should see him—” The words tumbled out.
Abigail winced. That happiness had skipped her. Why listen to someone else’s joy? She just wanted Emily to stop talking and leave. But the girl kept thanking her, crying.
“Thank you! I—I’ll do anything for you. I’m in your debt forever. If you could see how wonderful he is—”
“Married?” Abigail cut in.
“Married?” Emily blinked. “Yes, but—”
“Drinks?”
“No! He’s—he’s overseas. Took a job there to earn more for our son. But it still wasn’t enough.” Her shoulders slumped at the memory.
“How’ll you get the money home? Not scared?”
“I’ll hide it.” Emily opened her coat—a fabric pouch hung around her neck. She tucked the envelope inside, knotted it tight. Under her loose coat, it just looked like a baby bump. “See? No one’ll guess.”
“Fine. Go straight home. No stops.”
“Yes! Thank you! Anything you need, just ask—” Emily grabbed Abigail’s hand, kissed it tearfully.
Abigail yanked her hand back.
“Write after the operation,” she said, opening the door.
“I will!” Emily called from the stairs.
Abigail locked up, eyed the wet footprints on the floor. Almost mopped them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while she was still travelling. Family, after all.
She went to the window. Snow fell softly, painting the courtyard festive white. Emily hurried away below. Suddenly, Abigail wanted to wear her fur coat outside.
She’d owned it for years but never dared wear it beyond her mirror. *Too flashy for the shops. What if someone mugs me?*
But now she thought: *Life’s passing me by, and what have I done with it? Hid, feared everything. Who’ll get this coat when I’m gone? That wide-eyed niece, I suppose. Better her than a stranger.*
She put it on, added her hat, stepped out. Felt taller, grander in the fur. Snow crunched underfoot. She walked with her chin up, a faint smile playing on her lips. Reached the square with its towering Christmas tree—kids dashed around, parents filming them.
“Could you help us?” A young man held out his phone. Abigail recoiled on instinct, ready to turn away, but something in his face stopped her.
“What?”
“Take our picture?”
“How?” She flustered.She watched the little girl laugh as the snowflakes landed on her mittens, and for the first time in years, Abigail forgot to be afraid.
