Running late for the train, she returned home without warning and couldnt hold back her tears.
Missing her usual connection, Emily decided to head back without calling. The moment she stepped through the front door, the tears spilled over. A cold October wind whipped sharp raindrops against her face. She watched the departing train through blurred vision, a hollow ache settling in her chest. Shed missed itfor the first time in fifteen years of her regular commute home. “Like a bad dream,” she thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform stood empty and eerie, the yellow streetlights reflecting in puddles, casting strange, wavering paths of light.
“The next train isnt till tomorrow morning,” the ticket clerk said flatly, barely glancing up. “Fancy the coach instead?”
Emily grimaced. “Three hours bouncing down potholed roads? No, thank you.”
Her phone buzzed in her bagMum calling. She hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. No need to worry her. Better to just go home; she always had her keys. The cab sped through quiet streets, the city outside the window like a painted backdropunreal, distant.
The driver muttered something about the weather and traffic, but Emily wasnt listening. A strange feeling grew inside hernot quite dread, not quite anticipation.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled familiar childhood scentsroast potatoes from the flat above, laundry powder, the faint tang of old wood. But tonight, something felt off, like a wrong note in a well-known song.
The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if the door resisted her. The hallway was dark and silenther parents must have gone to bed. Tiptoeing to her room, she switched on the lamp. Everything was as she left it: bookshelves, her childhood desk, the threadbare teddy bear on the bedher mothers sentimental keepsake. But something wasnt right. Something intangible had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Not the usual nighttime hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Emily pulled out her laptopwork never waitedbut as she reached for the socket, her elbow knocked a small box from the shelf. It tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, its corners curled. A young womanher mother, barely more than a girllaughing, leaning against a strangers shoulder. The first tear fell before Emily even realized she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, assured, entirely unfamiliar.
*”My dearest Margaret, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant stay silent any longer. Every day I think of you, of our… Forgive me, even writing it feels dangerousour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Her heart pounded. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates spanning 1988, 1990, 1993… Her entire childhood, her entire life, written in these pages by a strangers hand.
*”…I saw her from afar outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I didnt dare approach…”*
*”…Fifteen years old. I imagine the beauty shes become. Margaret, perhaps its time…?”*
A lump rose in her throat. The lamplight sharpened the photographs details. She studied the mans face with sudden intensity. High forehead, sharp eyes, a wry twist to his smile… Good Lord, she had his nose. That slight tilt of his head…
“Emily?” Her mothers voice made her jump. “Why didnt you”
Margaret froze in the doorway, staring at the scattered letters. The colour drained from her face.
“Mum, what is this?” Emily held up the photo. “Dont tell me hes just an old friend. I can *see* it. I *feel* it.”
Her mother sank onto the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
“William… William Harold Whitmore,” she said faintly. “I thought this would stay buried. I never imagined…”
“Buried?” Emilys voice cracked. “Mum, this is my *life*. Why did you keep this from me?”
“Because it was necessary!” Her mothers voice broke. “You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine… They wouldnt allow it.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistledthe same one Emily had missed that evening. Coincidence? Or had fate decided the truth couldnt stay hidden any longer?
They talked until dawn. Outside, the sky lightened, the room thick with the scent of cooling tea and unspoken words.
“He was a literature teacher,” Margaret whispered, as if afraid to disturb the past. “Came to our school fresh from university. Young, handsome, recited poetry from memory… Half the girls were in love with him.”
Emily barely recognized her mother. Where was the woman who always played it safe? Before her sat someone elseyoung, reckless, her eyes alight.
“And then… I found out I was expecting you.” Her mother clenched her jaw. “You cant imagine the scandal. His parents called it ‘beneath him.’ Mine said Id shamed them.”
“And you just… gave up?” Bitterness crept into Emilys voice.
“They transferred him. No discussion. A month later, they introduced me to your… to Robert.” She hesitated. “A good man. Dependable.”
*Dependable*, echoed in Emilys mind. *Like an old armchair. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this house.*
“But the letters… Why keep them?”
“Because I couldnt throw them away!” For the first time that night, raw pain broke through. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often… But he never stopped.”
Emily picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”My dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Willowbrook, bought a house on Linden Lane. Perhaps one day… Always yours, W.”*
“Willowbrook,” Emily repeated slowly. “Thats only four hours away.”
Her mother paled. “Dont even thinkEmily, some things are best left alone!”
“Left alone?” Emily stood. “Mum, this isnt the past. Its *now*. And I have a right to know.”
Outside, dawn finally broke. A new day demanded new choices.
“Im going,” Emily said firmly. “Today.”
And for the first time in that endless night, she knew it was the right decision.
Willowbrook met her with a chill wind and drizzle. The village seemed frozen in timeold cottages, quiet lanes, hedgerows like something from a Brontë novel.
Linden Lane curved at the edge of town. Emily walked slowly, checking house numbers. Her heart hammered so loudly she feared the whole street could hear.
Number 17. A neat little house, curtains drawn, golden asters by the gate. The latch wasnt fastened.
*What do I even say?* she thought. *Hello, Im your daughter?*
But she didnt have to decide.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book fell.
“Margaret?” he whispered.
“No… Not Margaret.”
“Im Emily,” she said, her voice trembling. “Emily Whitmore… though Im not sure about the surname now.”
William Whitmore went very still, gripping the porch railing.
“Good God,” he managed. “Come inside… please.”
The house smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with well-worn volumes.
A framed print hung near the fireplace*The Lady of Shalott*, Emilys favourite since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” William said, fiddling with the mugs. “But I imagined it a thousand different ways…”
“Why didnt you fight for us?” The question spilled out.
He paused, kettle in hand. “Because I was weak,” he said simply. “Because I believed it was for the best. The greatest mistake of my life.”
The raw sorrow in his voice clutched at her chest.
“Every birthday,” he said, not meeting her eyes, “I bought you a gift. Theyre all here.”
He opened a door. Emily gasped. Neat stacks of books lined the room, each tied with ribbon.
“First edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he said softly, lifting the top book. “*The Little Prince* with original illustrationsfor seven… I chose things Id have read to you.”
She traced the spines. Thirty years of missed conversations, thirty years of unshared stories.
“And this” He pulled out a worn volume. “Your first published story. *Letters to Nowhere*. I recognised your styleyou write like I do.”
“You followed
