The Woman in Scarlet
On a frosty morning in the quiet town of Woodchester, where the wind chased fallen leaves across the station platform, I spotted her at Northgate Station. She stood at the very edge, as if she no longer belonged to this world—cloaked in a scarlet coat that rustled in the subway draft, her hair loosely tied back, white headphones resting in her ears. Yet no music seemed to play—only silence. There was no anticipation in her stance, just a deep, frozen sorrow, as though she carried a secret grief the rest of us couldn’t fathom. Her gaze stretched beyond the tracks, past the crowd, into some distant, unseen world no one else could enter.
I thought of letters never sent, melodies that only echoed in memory. She looked like someone still held by the past—a ghost refusing to let go.
I missed my train.
She boarded the next one.
A week later, I saw her again. Everything was nearly the same—the same station, the same hour, the same pale glow of the overhead lights. She stood in her scarlet coat, as if it weren’t just clothing but a second skin, shielding her from the world. Detached, as though balanced between reality and dreams. In her hands, she held a single white lily, tied with a thin ribbon. It wasn’t mere decoration—it was a symbol of something deeper: loss, farewell, acceptance. I thought of tragedy, anniversaries, pain too vast for words. The lily wasn’t love—it was surrender.
This time, I stepped closer than before. My pulse hammered, as though 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 dragging herself back from another world. Her eyes met mine, but they were hollow, seeing not me but the shadow of something long gone. A faint nod. Her gaze held the stillness of a lake and the weight of a stone—as though she bore a burden no one could share. Then the doors closed, and she vanished into the tunnel, leaving only the faint scent of lilies behind—bitter as memory.
I began riding the Underground without purpose. Changing lines, stations, schedules—all for another glimpse of her. Sometimes I caught her eye; other times, just a fleeting silhouette through the glass. Sometimes, only the empty space where she had stood. Yet I returned like a pilgrim, driven by a feeling I couldn’t name.
A month later, I dared to speak again:
“Forgive me, but we keep crossing paths… Fancy a cup of tea?”
She smiled—so faintly, as if testing whether she still remembered how.
“Tea is fine. Coffee wrecks my nerves.”
We slipped into a small tea shop near the station, fragrant with ginger and honey. Time moved sluggishly, like syrup. I learned her name was Eleanor. She had been an opera 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 shortbread, she told me herself.
“I lost my son,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was six. One morning, he just… didn’t wake up. I was preparing for a lead role at the time. And suddenly it all felt meaningless. What was the point, if I couldn’t bring back the mornings when he tugged at my sleeve, begging for his favourite cartoon?”
I stayed silent. Not for lack of words—but because none would be enough. She gazed out the window and whispered, “If you listen long enough, you can hear the city hold its breath.”
We met often after that, with no plans or promises. Walked the frostbitten streets of Woodchester, sometimes rode to the end of the line just to sit in silence. Eleanor wrote letters to her son—never to send, only to keep in a notebook. Sometimes she read me passages filled with light, the scent of grass, 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 any train. A week passed, then another—she’d vanished. I kept riding, knowing it was futile. She had left like the birds—not by choice, but because life demanded it.
Two months later, I found a note tucked in my coat pocket. Her handwriting—neat yet light, like her footsteps:
“You were my companion on this journey. Thank you for the warmth. I must go on. Perhaps where I’m headed, I’ll learn to smile again. Don’t look for me. Just remember.”
I remembered.
Since then, I’ve truly seen the people on the Underground—their quiet tears, their distant stares, the smiles hidden in thought. Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of someone in scarlet, my heart stumbles. Then silence.
But one day, I found myself smiling. Realised not all departures are forever. Some leave behind a sliver of light—not for them, but for you. To carry on.
