The Grey Mouse
Alison peeked out the window. Little ones were playing on the playground while their mums stood nearby, chatting and keeping an eye on them. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
She slipped on her black boots, a brown overcoat, and a matching knitted hat, grabbed her black leather handbag, and left the flat. Pausing just a second to listen for footsteps or voices on the stairs, she locked the door and headed down.
From afar, you might mistake her for an old woman. Only up close could you tell she was around fifty, maybe younger. Her face was plain—small eyes, thin lips. The kind you’d glance at and forget in an instant.
She’d moved into this building twenty-five years ago and kept to herself ever since. At first, neighbours would pop by—to borrow an onion, a cup of flour when they were too busy to run to the shop. Alison would crack the door just enough, if she opened it at all, say she had nothing to spare, and shut it straight away. Soon, they stopped knocking.
No one ever saw visitors at her door. It was like she was utterly alone in the world, which explained why she was so skittish, so closed-off.
She did have family, though—a younger sister living in a sleepy market town with her own lot. But Alison never kept in touch. Maybe because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who could say?
Strangers rarely stepped into her flat—just the odd plumber or the gas inspector. She’d always ask to see their ID, study it like it was a forgery, sometimes even call their office to double-check they were who they claimed.
She never harmed a soul. Never raised her voice, never gossiped, barely spoke to anyone. A quiet “hello” and she’d hurry on, head down.
Behind her back, people called her things—*spinster*, *grey mouse*, *stiff old biddy*. She’d worked at the same place her whole life, some dull office job as an accountant. Sat stern-faced at her desk, but always did her work perfectly, which was why the bosses tolerated her. Always wore the same dark, sensible dress, hair scraped back into a tight little bun.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child—for herself. That was when the only man in her life appeared: a driver named William. He’d drop by sometimes. She bought him shirts he’d leave at her place. He was married.
Maybe his wife found out, or maybe some “helpful” colleague clued her in—either way, two months later, William quit and vanished. Alison never got pregnant. That was her one and only love.
She convinced herself it was for the best. Raising a child alone would’ve been hard. And who knew how a son would turn out? A daughter, though—she didn’t want that at all. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world like her?
Once, at the shop, she’d filled a heavy bag with groceries. A man offered to carry it home for her.
*”I’m fine,”* she said, shooting him a look that sent him backing off.
*”As if. Help her, then bash her over the head and rob her blind. Not today, mate,”* she thought on her way home.
No one could trick her. She did sums in her head like a calculator. A cashier could ring up the wrong total, and she’d spot it straight off—no yelling, just a cold, firm stare until they coughed up the difference.
One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, her doorbell rang. Alison waited, listening. It rang again. She peered through the peephole—and for a second, thought her little sister was standing there.
*”Who is it?”* she asked, her heart suddenly thudding.
*”Aunt Ally? It’s me, Emily. Your niece.”* The voice was muffled by the door.
*”Niece? What do you want?”* Alison said warily.
*How’d she even find me? And why?* Then she remembered—years ago, she’d gone to show off her new flat to her sister and mum. Must’ve given the address then, just in case. All these years, not a peep from family. She hadn’t even known she *had* a niece. So her sister had married, had a girl. The thought made Alison’s lips twist.
She never went back. Nothing to brag about.
*”Aunt Ally, please—I need to talk to you,”* Emily pleaded.
Maybe it was the tears in her voice, maybe just curiosity—but Alison broke her own rule and opened the door.
*”Why are you here?”* she asked flatly.
She studied the girl—same height as her sister, same pretty face, same grey eyes. But where Alison’s were sharp, Emily’s were wide and trusting. Dark curls stuck out from under her hat.
The girl waited, hoping to be invited in. When Alison didn’t budge, she rushed on.
*”Aunt Ally, I’ve nowhere else to go. My son—he’s really ill. We took him to London, saw a specialist. They said he needs an urgent operation.”* A pause, hoping for a reaction. None came. *”It… it costs so much. I’ve asked everyone, but it’s not enough. Mum said you might help. So I came.”* Her voice cracked. *”I’m sorry. You’d understand if you saw him—”* She covered her face, swaying, and burst into tears.
Something in Alison’s chest twinged—for the girl, for the boy she’d never met, for herself. She imagined *her* son suffering, *her* begging for help. Her heart squeezed.
*”Come in,”* Alison said stiffly. She shut the door behind Emily, eyeing the wet boots dripping on her floor. *”Wait here.”*
She disappeared into the flat. Didn’t offer to take Emily’s coat, and the girl didn’t dare remove it. Just stood there, shivering, then peeked into the living room.
She’d only seen places like this in films—bright, modern, everything pristine. Felt like breathing would disturb it. A proper posh flat, not some cramped little box.
Emily perched on the edge of a footstool. Mum had warned her—*Aunt Ally’s odd, lives alone, probably won’t lift a finger*. But she’d had no one else to ask. *”What if she says no? She’ll say no.”*
*”Your home’s lovely,”* Emily blurted when Alison returned.
*”Here. For your boy.”* Alison held out a thick envelope. *”It’s enough. Take it.”*
Emily stood slowly, cradling the envelope like it might explode.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered, hardly believing it.
*”How old is he?”* Alison asked brusquely.
*”Two and a bit. He’s so sweet, so clever—you’d adore him—”* Emily gushed, the way doting mums do.
Alison winced. That joy had passed her by. Why listen to someone else’s happiness? She just wanted the girl to leave. But Emily kept thanking her, weeping.
*”Thank you! I—I’ll do anything for you—”*
*”You married?”* Alison cut in.
*”Married? Oh. Yeah, but—”*
*”He drink?”*
*”What? No! He’s overseas. Signed up to earn more for our boy. Still not enough, though.”* At the mention, Emily sagged, like the fight drained out of her.
*”How’ll you get the money home? Not scared?”*
*”I’ll hide it. Look.”*
Emily opened her coat—underneath, a cloth pouch hung from her neck. She tucked the envelope inside, tied it tight. Under the bulk of her coat, it just looked like a baby bump. No one would guess.
*”Right. Go straight home. No stops.”*
*”I will. Thank you! If you ever need anything—”* Emily suddenly grabbed Alison’s hand and kissed it, wet with tears.
Alison yanked her hand back.
*”Write after the surgery,”* she said, opening the door.
*”I will!”* Emily called from the stairs.
Alison locked up, stared at the wet footprints. Nearly wiped them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while someone’s travelling. Blood’s blood, after all.
She went to the window. Snow drifted down, turning the estate festive. Emily was already hurrying away. For the first time, Alison wanted to put on her fur coat and step outside.
She’d bought it years ago but never worn it out—just tried it on, twirled in the mirror, and hung it back up. Too flashy for the shops. What if someone mugged her? Left her bleeding in some alley?
But now she thought—life’s passing her by. She’s been hiding, afraid. And when she’s gone, who’d get the coat? That wide-eyed niece, probably.She stood there a while longer, watching the snow settle on the empty bench, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like a grey mouse at all.
