The Woman in Scarlet
On a frosty morning in the quiet town of Woodbury, where the wind chased fallen leaves across the station platforms, I spotted her at Northgate Station. She stood at the 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, white headphones resting in her ears as though they carried not music but silence. There was no impatience in her stance, only a deep, motionless sorrow—as if she knew something we did not, waiting only for time to catch up with her pain. Her gaze stretched beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some unseen distance of her own making, a place no one else could follow.
I thought of letters never sent, melodies that played only in memory. She seemed like someone still held by the hand—a ghost of the past refusing to let go.
I missed my train.
She left on the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Everything was almost the same: the same station, the same early hour, the same cold glow of the lamps. She stood there in her scarlet coat, as if it weren’t just clothing but a second skin—armor against the world. Again, she seemed distant, balanced between reality and dream. In her hands, she held a white lily, a solitary flower tied with a thin ribbon. It wasn’t just an ornament—it was a symbol of something deeper: loss, farewell, peace. I thought of tragedy, anniversaries, grief too heavy for words. The lily wasn’t a token of love, but of acceptance—of something irreversible.
I stepped closer than before. My heart raced, as though sensing this moment would change everything.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you dropped your ticket.”
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 wasn’t looking at me but at the shadow of something long gone. She gave the faintest nod. In her gaze was 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 only the faint scent of lilies—bitter as memory.
I began riding the Tube without purpose. Switched lines, stations, times—all in the hope of seeing her again. Sometimes I caught her glance, other times just the flicker of her silhouette through the window. Sometimes, only an empty space where she should have stood. But I returned, like a pilgrim drawn by a feeling I couldn’t explain.
A month later, I found my courage:
“Forgive me, we keep crossing paths… Would you like to have tea?”
She smiled—so softly it seemed as if she had forgotten how.
“Coffee troubles my heart. But tea—yes, that I can do.”
We slipped into a little tearoom by the station, where the air smelled of ginger and honey. Time slowed there, thick as 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. She told me herself a week later, when I brought her chamomile tea and a slice of cake.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. He just didn’t wake up one morning. I was in the middle of rehearsing for an operatic role. Then I realized—what did it matter, when I couldn’t bring back the mornings he’d wake me, asking for his favorite cartoon?”
I stayed silent. Not because I had no words, but because none would be enough. She gazed out the window and whispered, “If you’re quiet long enough, you can hear the city grow still.”
We met often, without plans or promises. Walked the icy streets of Woodbury, sometimes rode to the end of the line just to sit side by side. Eleanor wrote letters to her son—never to send, keeping them tucked in a notebook. Sometimes she read me passages filled with sunlight, the scent of grass, the warmth of her 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 in the carriage, not on the next train. A week passed, then another—she was gone. I kept riding, knowing it was pointless. She had left, like birds do—not because they wish 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 must move on. Perhaps, wherever I go, I’ll remember how to laugh again. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”
I did.
Since then, I’ve begun to truly see the people around me on the Tube—their tears, their quiet gazes, their smiles hidden in thought. Sometimes, catching sight of someone in a scarlet coat, my breath stills, my heart leaps foolishly. And then comes the silence.
But once, I smiled. Realized not all who leave are gone forever. Some leave a piece of light behind, so you might keep living—not for them, but for yourself.
