**The Return Home**
The old house on the edge of the village of Willowbrook, tucked deep within the woods of Sussex, smelled of dust and quiet hope. Eleanor, jolting along the uneven road in a battered bus, swallowed hard as nausea crept up her throat. Dust clogged her lungs, and a dull ache settled in her chest. What had possessed her to do this? Living alone in a crumbling country cottage, especially in her condition—it was madness. But the decision was made, and there was no turning back.
Eleanor had been ill for three years. The last visit to the doctor offered fragile hope—the treatment worked, but for how long? “With your diagnosis, nothing is certain,” the doctor had said flatly. She didn’t argue. Life had lost its flavour long ago. She and her husband, William, still shared a roof, but they were strangers now. When illness overtook her, he’d drifted further away, as if already searching for someone new. Love had withered long before, and Eleanor had accepted it.
But yesterday changed everything. Returning from the hospital, exhausted and barely steady on her feet, she found their cramped flat full of drunken laughter. William, celebrating the start of his leave, had brought his workmates round. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of stale beer. Eleanor left and wandered the park for hours. When she returned, the flat was a wreck—empty bottles, crumpled crisps packets, and William snoring on the sofa. That evening, half-sober, he reached for another pint and snapped when she tried to speak:
“It’s my flat, got it? The company gave it to me. I’ll drink if I want. You’re nobody here.”
*Who am I here?* Eleanor thought, blinking back tears. Her job, poorly paid and thankless, wasn’t worth clinging to. “I’ll hand in my notice tomorrow,” she decided. “Go back to the village. To Father’s old house. At least I can live out my days in peace, without drunken shouting.”
The cottage greeted her with the scent of aged oak and dried lavender. Memories pressed down like a weight. After her mother’s death, she’d only been back once—for the funeral. But the place was tidy—neighbours must have kept watch. The key, just as in childhood, lay under the loose step. The lock groaned but gave way. Eleanor stepped inside, breathing in the dusty air, and whispered,
“Hello, old friend.”
The floorboards creaked in reply. She flung open the shutters, letting in the golden light, changed into old clothes, and went to fetch water from the well. There, she found Mrs. Whittaker waiting.
“Eleanor? Is that you?” the woman gasped. “You’ve come back! My Edward kept an eye on the place, you know. Good thing too. Bless you for returning. Come round for supper tonight!”
Eleanor scrubbed the windows, wiped away years of dust, and polished the floors until they gleamed. The cottage seemed to sigh, coming alive again. Exhaustion dragged at her—her illness whispering its presence—but she lit the hearth to chase off the damp. That evening, over a simple meal, she shared her troubles, and Mrs. Whittaker tutted kindly.
“You did right coming home. Willowbrook’s where you belong. As for fading away—nonsense! We need a postmistress since old Mrs. Higgins retired. The village is small; you’ll manage fine. And go see Granny Prudence—she’ll give you herbs. Half our troubles come from fretting, you know. Here, it’s all peace and good air.”
Eleanor fell asleep smiling, thinking of the kindness around her. The next morning, something strange stirred in her—energy, a will to live, absent for years. After breakfast, she walked to arrange the post office job. Extra money never hurt, and she couldn’t bear sitting idle. Neighbours greeted her warmly, stopping to ask after her, wishing her well.
“Good morning!” she called back, warmth spreading in her chest.
Summer melted into autumn. Delivering letters became her joy—strolling through the village, stopping in at each house, sharing a word where she could. The crisp, clean air filled her lungs. Eleanor found a quiet contentment she’d never known in the city. Her cheeks grew rosy, her face fresh as a sun-warmed apple. Granny Prudence’s herbal brews helped—she slept soundly, ate with an appetite, and the weariness ebbed away.
The illness faded. Eleanor spent many more years in Willowbrook, wrapped in the warmth of home and kindness. Happiness, it turned out, didn’t need much—just peace in the soul, the comfort of old walls, and knowing you belong. And the sickness? Just nerves, like most troubles.
