**Unlatched Windows**
Emily heard her own voice for the first time in months. It came out hoarse, stifled, as if pushing through layers of dust that had settled on her vocal cords and time itself:
“Good morning.”
It wasn’t a greeting—it was a test. Her voice seemed uncertain whether it even had the right to make a sound. It belonged to a different life—one where bathroom doors slammed in the morning, kettles bubbled in the kitchen, and small bare feet ran to her, eager to show how the cress had sprouted on damp cotton wool in an old jam jar.
She opened her eyes to utter silence. The ceiling—dim and greyish, like faded sky—hung above her, lifeless and still. The flat was warm, but a faint draft brushed the edge of the curtains. She’d left the window open again. Or perhaps not forgotten, but left it on purpose. Just in case. Maybe childish laughter would drift through once more. Or footsteps. Or breathing.
She lay on her back, motionless, as if hoping that if she stared upward long enough, the cracks in the plaster might reveal a path—a way out of this endless grey room and, more importantly, out of herself.
The kitchen remained unchanged. A mug with dried coffee on the windowsill, still waiting for yesterday to begin. A browned apple on the chopping board, abandoned like forgotten conversations. And the photo on the fridge: a boy of six, dressed as an astronaut, grinning so widely it looked like he was about to ask, *”Mum, will I really fly?”*
She hadn’t touched the picture in over a year. Her hand would hover near it, afraid to erase the memory by mistake. It was held by a magnet from a children’s eye clinic—ironic, if she thought about it. They’d gone in for *just a check-up*, her son complaining that letters ran away. In the end… it wasn’t a prescription or glasses. It was something no one prepares for. Something with no way back.
By the front door—tiny trainers with blue Velcro straps. Dusty. Silent. Witnesses to time standing still. Emily passed them daily, trembling as if knocking them over would shatter everything. Just a pair of children’s shoes—plastic, fabric, soles. And yet, a whole universe compressed into twenty centimetres.
She used to love mornings—brewing coffee, playing music. Now, it was boiling water and bitter green tea, no sugar, no lemon. The bitterness trailed down her throat like unspoken words. Outside, the city stirred: buses rumbling, cigarette smoke, a dog’s bark, neighbours shouting. Life went on, unaware that someone nearby had stopped long ago.
Emily once taught literature at a college in Leeds. She adored Chekhov—for his restraint, for the pain between the lines, for the pauses where she could hide. After… she left. First on sick leave. Then into nowhere. She never went back. Couldn’t. Then didn’t want to. Reading became unbearable; words clawed at her ribs from the inside.
In spring, a friend dragged her to a support group. The room smelled of cheap vending-machine coffee, the walls dulled by time and strangers’ grief. She remembered a woman in a red jumper who’d lost her husband. A boy of twenty, gripping his backpack, silent all evening. No one shouted. But the air hummed with pain, like a taut string.
Emily felt out of place. As if her loss was too private. Too invisible. No grave, no date, no goodbye. As if she wasn’t allowed to suffer aloud. So she left. Quietly. Never returned.
Sometimes she wrote letters. Never sent them. Just saved them. Her laptop held a folder called *”Drafts.”* She wrote to him.
*”You’d be starting Year Two now. You’d probably hate porridge. We’d argue in the mornings. Or maybe you’d be quiet. You’d know the smell of my hair. I’d braid it if you were a girl. But you’re my boy. My astronaut. My *’Mum, look!’* My hope.”*
Sometimes she wouldn’t finish. Just a full stop. No explanation.
Today, her voice didn’t come from emptiness, but from somewhere deep. It wasn’t pleading, weeping, or calling. It just *was.* And for once, that felt like enough.
For the first time in too long, Emily wanted to step outside. No purpose. No reason. Just to feel the pavement beneath her feet again.
She pulled out her coat—unworn in ages. Tugged on boots. Paused. Listened to the old floorboards sigh under her weight. Inside, a strange tremor. Not fear. Not pain. Something else. As if something was returning.
She walked to the fridge. Took the photo. Carefully peeled off the magnet. Ran her finger over her son’s face, his wide, bright 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 a year—she latched the window.
Not from pain. Not from fear. Just because she finally understood: now, she *could.* And maybe—she *should.*
