There, Where Silence Dwells
That night, Eleanor woke at four in the morning—as if yanked from sleep by an unseen hand. The room was silent. Unnaturally, dreadfully silent. No hum of traffic beyond the window, no gurgle from the ageing fridge, no thudding footsteps from the flat above. Even the cat didn’t scratch at the door or mewl for food. The air in the bedroom felt thick, heavy, as though the world had frozen in anticipation of something. Deep inside her, beneath her ribs, a wave rose—not fear, not dread… emptiness. The kind that rings in your ears like a gunshot in an enclosed space.
Exactly forty-nine days had passed.
Her husband was dead. Quietly. He had simply stopped living. His heart gave out at the bus stop where he waited for the morning coach to work. That day, he’d risen as usual. Tied his shoelaces, sneezed, grumbled about his blood pressure. Said he’d pick up bread and something for tea. She couldn’t recall if he’d kissed her goodbye. Then—the call. From the mortuary. A stranger’s voice: “We regret to inform you…”
Eleanor never understood how it could happen—just like that. Without warning. Without a final conversation, without time to say farewell. No lingering quarrel to later forgive. Just silence. A full stop in the middle of an unfinished sentence.
The first days, she held herself together. People came with casseroles, flowers, pamphlets about grief. They told her how strong she was. She nodded. Kept her back straight, spoke evenly. Until she was alone. When the last well-wisher had gone, when the last donated soup had gone cold, when the phone no longer rang—Silence arrived.
At first, it was piercing. Then suffocating. Every sound in the flat became too loud: the drip of the tap, the click of a light switch, her own footsteps. Even her breathing seemed alien. She began whispering to herself—testing whether she was still there, or if only her reflection remained.
On the third day, she rearranged the dishes. On the fifth, she washed the windows, murmuring, “Like before.” By the week’s end, she dared to pack away some of his things. Only some. The rest she couldn’t bear to touch. She left his favourite shirt, the one he wore when making pancakes on Sundays. Left his scuffed trainers, always left in the corner despite her endless reminders. She pressed them to her face, inhaled, then set them back down.
She didn’t cry. No tears, no sobs. As if her body refused to believe it. As if her mind still waited—for the door to creak, for footsteps in the hall. But her hands moved mechanically: washing, ironing, cooking, checking the post. All in expectation. Not of him. Of herself. In a new day. Without him.
Mrs. Wilkins from next door brought scones. Each time, she asked the same question:
“How are you holding up?”
Eleanor never knew what to say. “Horrible” was too shallow; “Fine,” a lie. She simply existed. Moving by inertia, like someone pulled from drowning: breathing but motionless. Seeing but blind.
After a month, she stepped outside for the first time. No purpose. No direction. Just walking. Autumn had arrived—wet leaves, wind on her face, puddles reflecting the grey sky. In the chaos of streets and car horns, her senses sharpened: the scent of damp earth, footsteps of passersby, the chill of a metal bench.
On one such bench sat a boy. Perhaps ten, slight, bundled in an oversized grey coat, a rucksack at his feet. He was feeding pigeons. She sat a little way off—neither approaching nor hiding. After a while, he looked up.
“Did someone die?”
Eleanor froze. Words stuck in her throat.
“Why do you ask?”
“Your eyes are quiet,” he said simply. “That’s how people look when they’ve stopped waiting but still remember.”
From then on, she went to the park daily. Same time. The boy’s name was Oliver. He was always there, with the same pigeons. Sometimes he nodded like an adult. Sometimes he just sat, rustling sweet wrappers. Sometimes he brought her sunflower seeds. Sometimes he drew in the dirt with a stick: ships, houses, people with sad eyes.
They never spoke of what mattered. And that was what mattered most. Their silence wasn’t heavy or frightening. It was shelter, a blanket—warm, understanding. Both knew words could only wound. Where pain runs deep, silence is safest.
Two months passed. Eleanor laughed for the first time. First at a silly picture online. Then at Oliver’s impression of a professor lecturing on pigeons. Then in the kitchen, aloud, to herself. She laughed because she could. Because something inside had shifted.
But one day, Oliver didn’t come. Nor the next. She waited. Sat on the bench, clutching the smooth pebble he’d once given her—a “lucky stone,” he’d called it, with a delicate white vein.
A week later, a woman approached.
“Excuse me. You must be Eleanor? I’m Oliver’s mum.”
In her hands was a card. Childish. A house, a sun, a dove. Inside, in uneven script:
*You’re not alone. You’re just quiet. And that’s beautiful.*
Eleanor stared at the words—and for the first time, wept. Unrestrained. Unashamed. Not hiccupping, but steadily, like rain on glass. As though she had finally given herself permission—not to survive. Not to exist. To live.
The next morning, she woke again to silence. The same room. The same walls. The same pauses between sounds. But now she knew: in that silence dwelled not emptiness. But hope.
