Unclosed Windows
Emily heard her own voice for the first time in months. It came out hoarse, stifled, as if pushing through a layer of dust settled on her vocal cords and time itself:
“Good morning.”
It wasn’t an address—just a tentative step. Her voice seemed unsure if it even had the right to speak. It sounded as though it belonged to another life—one where bathroom doors slammed in the morning, kettles boiled in the kitchen, and small bare feet ran to show her how the pea sprouted on cotton wool in a jar that once held honey.
She opened her eyes to a heavy silence. The ceiling, dull and grey like bleached-out sky, hung flat above her, lifeless. The flat was warm, but a faint draught brushed the edge of the curtain—she’d left the window open again. Or perhaps not forgotten, but left that way on purpose. Just in case a child’s laughter might drift in from outside. Or footsteps. Or breath.
She lay still on her back, as if hoping that if she stared upward long enough, the cracks in the plaster might reveal a path. A route that would show her how to escape this endless grey room—and, more importantly, herself.
In the kitchen, everything stayed in place. A mug with dried coffee on the windowsill—waiting for yesterday to begin again. A darkened apple on the cutting board, abandoned like forgotten conversations. And the photo on the fridge: a boy of about six, dressed as an astronaut, grinning widely, as if about to ask, *”Mum, will I really fly there someday?”*
She hadn’t touched the picture in over a year. Her hand would hover, afraid that contact might erase the memory. The magnet holding it there came from a children’s eye clinic—absurd, if you thought about it. They’d only gone in for a check-up, her son complaining that letters ran away when he read. And then… it didn’t end with glasses or a prescription. It ended differently.
By the door, tiny trainers with blue Velcro straps sat dusty and silent, witnesses to time standing still. She passed them every day, trembling slightly, as if brushing against them would make everything collapse. Just a child’s shoes—plastic, fabric, rubber soles. And yet, inside them, an entire universe.
She used to love mornings—coffee, music. Now it was boiling water with plain green tea, no sugar, no lemon. Bitterness slid down her throat like unspoken words. Outside, the city stirred: double-deckers, cigarette smoke, a distant dog’s bark, neighbours shouting. Life went on, unaware that someone nearby had stopped living long ago.
Emily had taught literature once. At a college in Manchester. She adored Austen—the restraint, the ache between sentences, the pauses where she could hide. After… she left. First, on sick leave. Then into nothing. She never went back. Couldn’t. And later, didn’t want to. Reading became unbearable; words cracked her ribs from the inside.
In spring, a friend dragged her to a support group. The room smelled of cheap machine coffee, walls grey with wear and strangers’ grief. She remembered a woman in a red jumper who’d lost her husband, a quiet boy of twenty clinging to his backpack. No one screamed. But the air hummed with pain, like a tightened string.
She felt out of place there, as if her loss was too private. Too invisible. No grave, no date, no goodbye. As if she wasn’t allowed to grieve aloud. So she left, quietly, and never returned.
Sometimes she wrote letters. Never sent them. Just saved them in a folder on her laptop called *”Drafts.”* She wrote to him.
*”You’d be in Year Two now. You’d hate porridge, I think. We’d argue in the mornings. Or maybe you’d be calm. You’d know how my hair smells. I’d braid it if you were a girl. But you’re a boy. My astronaut. My ‘Mum, look!’ My hope.”*
Sometimes she didn’t finish. Just stopped mid-sentence. No explanations.
Today, her voice didn’t come from emptiness—but from somewhere deeper. It didn’t plead, call out, or ache. It simply *was.* And suddenly, that was enough.
For the first time in ages, she wanted to go outside. No reason. No purpose. Just to step onto pavement that hadn’t felt her footsteps in so long.
She pulled out her coat—hadn’t worn it in ages—shoved on boots, then paused. Listened to the old floorboards sigh under her soles. Inside, a strange quiver—not fear, not pain. Something else. As if something was coming back.
She walked to the fridge. Took down the photo. Carefully peeled off the magnet. Ran her thumb over her son’s face, his wide, impossibly alive smile.
“Come on, my astronaut. I need to learn how to live again,” she whispered.
She opened the door. Took a step. Then another.
And for the first time in all these years—she closed the window.
Not from pain. Not from fear. Just because she finally understood: now, she *could.* And maybe… she even should.
