The Woman in Scarlet
On a frosty morning in the village of Woodford, where the wind chased fallen leaves across the platform, I noticed her at Northgate Station. She stood at the very edge, as if she no longer belonged to this world—wrapped in a scarlet coat that fluttered in the underground draft, her hair loosely tied back, and white earbuds that seemed to carry not music, but silence. There was no anticipation of a train in her posture, only a deep, frozen sorrow—as if she knew something we did not, and now merely waited for time to catch up with her grief. Her gaze stretched beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some unseen distance of her own mind, a place no one else could follow.
I thought of letters never sent, of melodies that play only in memory. She seemed like someone whose hand was still being held—by a ghost of the past that refused to let go.
I missed my train.
She left on the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Almost everything was the same—the station, the early hour, the cold glow of the lamps. She stood in her scarlet coat, as if it were not clothing but a second skin, shielding her from the world. And again, she was distant, hovering between reality and dream. In her hands was a white lily, a single flower tied with a slender ribbon. It was no mere ornament—it was a symbol of something deeper: loss, farewell, peace. I thought of tragedy, of anniversaries, of pain too heavy for words. The lily seemed to embody not love, but acceptance of something irreversible.
I stepped closer this time. My heart pounded as if sensing this moment would change everything.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped your ticket.”
I knew it was a lie. But I needed her to speak. Or at least to notice me.
She turned slowly, as if returning from another world. Her eyes met mine, but they were empty, as though she saw not me, but the shadow of something long gone. She gave the faintest nod. Her gaze held the clarity of a lake and the weight of a stone—as if she carried a burden no one could share. Then the train doors closed, and she vanished into the tunnel, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilies—bitter as memory.
I began riding the Tube without purpose. Switched lines, stations, times—all in hopes of seeing her again. Sometimes I caught her glance, sometimes just a fleeting silhouette behind glass. Sometimes, only the empty space where she should have stood. But I returned, as if on a pilgrimage, driven by something I couldn’t name.
After a month, I gathered my courage.
“Pardon me, we keep crossing paths… Would you like to have tea?”
She smiled—so quietly, as if testing whether she still remembered how.
“I don’t drink coffee—my heart can’t take it. But tea… yes, I’d like that.”
We went to a small teahouse near the station, fragrant with ginger and honey. Time moved thickly, like syrup. I learned her name was Eleanor. She had been a singer but left the stage three years ago—”after what happened.” I didn’t ask. A week later, when I brought her chamomile tea and a slice of cake, she told me herself.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. Just didn’t wake up one morning. I was singing in the opera then, preparing for a big role. And suddenly I thought—what’s the point of any of it, if I can’t bring back the mornings when he’d wake me, begging for his favourite cartoon?”
I stayed silent. Not for lack of words, but because any word would have been too much. She looked out the window and whispered, “If you’re quiet long enough, you can hear the city hold its breath.”
We met often after that, without plans or promises. Walked Woodford’s frozen streets, sometimes rode to the end of the line just to sit together. Eleanor wrote letters to her son—never to send, keeping them in a notebook. Sometimes she read me passages, full of sunlight, the smell of grass, and her warm memories. I listened, afraid to admit I’d fallen in love. Afraid to shatter her fragile world.
Then one morning, she wasn’t there. Not on the platform, not on the train, not the next one. A week passed, then another—she was gone. I kept riding, knowing it was futile. She had left as birds do—not because they want to, but because life demands it.
Two months later, I found a note in my coat pocket. Her handwriting—neat but light, like her footsteps:
“You were my companion on this journey. Thank you for the warmth. I’m moving on now. Maybe where I’m going, I’ll remember how to laugh again. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”
I did.
Since then, I’ve noticed the people on the Tube—their tears, their distant gazes, their smiles tucked away in thought. Sometimes, spotting someone in a scarlet coat, I freeze, and my heart takes a foolish leap. Then comes the quiet.
But one day, I smiled. Realised not all who leave are gone forever. Some leave behind a piece of light, so you can keep living. Not for them, but for yourself.
