The relentless insomnia had crept into Emilys life years ago, becoming a shadow that never left her side. On this sleepless night she kept her bitter ritual. As if following a practiced rite, she rose from the bed, walked to the cold window and cracked the flimsy pane of the bedrooms vent. She drew a deep breath of damp, clammy air and stared out at the thick milky veil that swallowed the sleeping town. From behind the dark ridge of a neighbours roof the wan crescent of the moon slipped slowly into view, hanging in the mist like a faceless lantern, spilling a cold, silver light over the streets.
Emily loathed those endless, soulfreezing nights. It felt as if enough time had passed for the pain to fade, for her spirit to settle and learn to find joy again Yet she clung to the ghosts of the past as if they were the only rope keeping her from drowning, refusing to let go. In the silence she beggedfirst her husband, then her daughterto appear in her dreams, aching with longing, while her bruised heart wailed under the weight of absolute loneliness. Five long years had slipped by, but time proved not a soothing balm; it was a harsh reminder of loss, tightening its grip around her throat with each passing day.
The fateful day began like any other. Emily was preparing for a work trip to one of the satellite colleges of the university where she taught. These trips had become a routine, especially in the middle of term, when she was repeatedly called to lecture and examine parttime students, sometimes several times a semester.
Her husband David and their daughter Emily (named after the mothers own childhood nickname) had long grown accustomed to their mothers suitcase life. They teased her now and then, but their jokes always carried warmth and boundless love.
Then that dreadful afternoon arrived, and Emily returned to the dead, deafening silence of an empty flat. Minutes later the phone rang: David and little Emily had been caught in a horrific car crash. David could not be saved, and her daughter clung to life in a hospital for months, fighting for every breath.
A gaping void carved itself into Emilys soul and the future she had once imagined. Work became her only refuge. Lectures, students, the endless succession of academic daysshe took on the maximum teaching load just to drown the ache, to lose herself in a vortex of duties.
Still, whenever a face in the crowd vaguely echoed Davids or Emilys, she flinched, tears spilling unbidden.
At 8:55a.m. the department assistants call came through.
Good morning, Emily. Just a reminder about the resit for the parttime students at ten, the lab technician chirped.
Thanks, Iris. Ive got it, Emily replied, already gathering her things.
Usually she walked to work through the underground tunnel, passing rows of kiosks, elderly women hawking their wares, and street musicians strumming away. Today, a young woman with a baby clutched to her chest caught her eye. The infant was pressed against the mothers chest with fierce protectiveness, as if she were trying to shield him from every evil in the world. The mother wore ripped jeans, a thin jacket illsuited to the autumn chill, and her chin was buried in her collar, gaze empty and distant. Passersby hurried on, tossing no coins, offering no help.
The baby, swaddled in a clean, warm blanket, slept peacefully. At the womans feet lay a battered suitcase and a paper cup holding a few scattered coins.
She could not be older than eighteen, maybe less; fatigue made her look younger.
Emily slowed, and a pang of memory for her own daughter tightened her heart. Her hand reached for the womans bag, withdrew a £1,000 note, and handed it over.
The woman lifted her eyesbottomless, brimming with universal sorrow and hopelessness. They stared in silence for a few heartbeats.
Mother! the woman whispered, the word so clear it sounded like a scream to Emily.
Paralyzed, Emily could not utter a sound. Finally, with a trembling voice she managed:
Please, take this and buy something for yourself and the little one
Her heart hammered, urging her onwardshe was late, she had an appointment. The woman must have been mistaken, lost in the dim tunnel.
At the university, Emily plunged back into the familiar whirl of resits, lectures, and consultations, yet the image of that morning clung to her, refusing to fade.
Motherthe word she would never hear again echoed in her mind. What had become of that young mother? Why was she left in such desperation? How could she be helped?
That evening, returning home, Emily walked the same tunnel again. The young mother was gone, leaving only a gust of wind that flapped a discarded chocolate wrapper and a handful of fallen leaves across the concrete.
The flat door swung open to a cloud of warm, fragrant air, scented with fresh cabbage pies and vanilla scones. In the bustling kitchen, surrounded by pots and bowls, her mother, Barbara Lawson, bustled about. Barbara lived in a modest onebed flat in the same block, just down the courtyard. She refused to move in with her daughter, insisting that her own flat was her sanctuary, every object a relic of years lived. The thought of strangers crossing her threshold was unbearable, so she gave Emily a single, steadfast answer to any plea.
Nevertheless, the two women supported each other. Barbara often visited, bringing trays of pastries, crisp pancakes, and fluffy crumpets made from a secret family recipe. She tried desperately to help Emily bear her grief, smiling through her own hidden pain, though inside she felt a bitterness as sharp as a cats claws.
How was your day? Barbara asked as soon as Emily hung her coat.
Mum I met a girl in the tunnel, Emily began, voice trembling. She was almost a child, holding a baby they were asking for alms.
Probably another con artist, Barbara sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. The news loves those stories.
I gave her money
Oh dear, you cant help everyone. Youre a softie, Barbara chuckled, patting Emilys shoulder. Come, sit down, let the food cool.
Emily obeyed, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Barbara placed a plate of steaming scones before her, while a kettle began to whistle. On the windowsill, under the glow of a streetlamp, curled up in a ginger ball, was Whiskers, the cat that had once belonged to Emilys daughter. He purred softly, lost in feline dreams.
Mum Emily whispered again, softer this time.
What is it, love? Barbara asked, eyes filled with concern.
She she called me Mum, Emily said slowly, eyes fixed on a point in the distance.
Barbara said nothing, only shook her silvered head with a melancholy sigh. After an hour, the evening chores finished, Emily retreated to her own flat.
In her quiet onebedroom, Barbara sat for a long while in the living room, leafing through a thick family album. Her fingers traced the faded photographs of a younger version of herself cradling a boyish husband, his smile carefree. She wondered why life so cruelly snatched away those she loved most, just when they were needed.
The grandfather clock struck midnight. Barbara closed the heavy album, switched off the light, and lay in bed, telling herself she needed rest. Its just a coincidence, a cruel joke of fate, she whispered to the ceiling, the bitter taste of the thought lingering on her tongue.
The next morning, destiny brought Emily facetoface with the stranger again, this time not in the dim tunnel but at an open bus stop drenched in a downpour. Rain hammered the streets as if trying to wash the city clean. The woman wore the same threadbare jacket and torn jeans, the battered suitcase at her feet, a shaking infant in her arms. She sang a low, monotone lullaby, rocking the baby gently.
Emily stood frozen, torn between the urge to help and the fear of intruding. She knew a thin line separated compassion from unwanted interference. Yet a thousand reasons flashed through her mind why the young mother might be there: homelessness, unemployment, abuse. The image from yesterday lingered, a silent accusation.
She kept her distance, watching the scene unfold. Buses came and went, but the woman never moved. Finally, her shoulders slumped, tears blending with the rain as she sank onto the wet bench.
Emilys heart ached. Unable to stay a bystander, she stepped forward.
Hello, she said softly. Im sorry to bother you, but perhaps I can help?
The woman flinched, as if woken from a dream, but said nothing, her tears merging with the rain. Emily sat beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Its dangerous to sit out in this weather, Emily murmured. Your baby could catch a cold, and youre shivering. I live just a street away. You can come in, wait out the storm, warm up, and we can look after the little one together.
Without waiting for a reply, Emily called a taxi. The woman, almost mechanically, followed her into the car. The ride was silent, broken only by the babys soft whimpers and the occasional sigh.
Whats your name? Emily asked as she opened the door to her flat, letting the cool, damp air spill in.
Alice, the woman answered, stepping over the threshold.
Come in, Alice. Do you have anything to feed the baby?
Yes shes still breastfeeding, Alice replied quietly.
While Alice changed and fed the infant in the living room, Emily phoned the department and cancelled all her lectures for the day. After years of grinding away with barely any days off, the university understood her sudden leave.
Alice, dinners on the table, you must eat, Emily said, setting a bowl of hot soup before her.
The baby fell asleep soundly, and Alice, moving like a thief fearing to wake a dream, slipped into the kitchen and took a seat. She stared at her host, halfexpecting the warmth of the home to dissolve like a mirage.
Thank you, she whispered. Its so hard being alone with a baby, nowhere to go.
What happened? Wheres your home? Emily asked gently.
Alice exhaled heavily, shoulders hunched under the weight of memory.
We have no home. Its my fault. Years ago, in a foolish move, I signed papers handing my mothers flat over to my husband, Nathan. He promised everything would be fine, that it was for business then he threw us out. I sold my savings, bought a ticket on the first train, and ended up here.
No family? Mother, father? Emily pressed.
My mother died three years ago. I never knew my father; Mum never spoke of him. She kept her past locked away, as if it held some terrible secret.
Alice began to sob.
It was too late to catch her illness, she said, swallowing tears. Doctors said there was a chance, but we missed it. Then Andrew came I thought it was love, but he only wanted the flat. My daughter became a burden
Emily wrapped her arms around Alices shoulders, feeling her shiver.
Stay with me, she said firmly. I live alone. My husband and daughter died years ago. Honestly, seeing you in the tunnel brought back memories of my Emily.
That night, Alice rummaged through the modest possessions left in the room that once belonged to Emilys daughter. She carefully lifted an old wooden frame from the suitcase, revealing a faded photograph of a woman in her midtwenties, smiling broadly, eyes bright as a clear sky. Alice spoke to the picture in a hushed voice, feeling the unseen presence of her mother, as if a warm hand guided her away from sorrow.
The next day, Barbara dropped by with a fresh bundle of hot rolls and met Alice for the first time. The tale Alice told of her wandering reignited a longburied memory in the older woman, as if a gust of wind had turned a page in an old, dusty book.
She recalled a bleak December many decades ago, herself in a maternity ward after a painful birth. The nurses cruel remarkYou only have one child, what are you dreaming about?had pierced her heart. When Alice now showed the worn photograph, Barbaras pulse quickened; the woman in the picture resembled Emily, her own daughter, as if she were looking at a twin.
Weeks later, after the first snow fell, the three women gathered around a modest kitchen table, the soft glow of a lamp reflecting off the copper kettle. The air was thick not just with the scent of food but with the weight of unspoken truths.
When Barbara finished her tearful recounting, silence settled. Alice, pale and trembling, reached for Emilys hand.
I saw you in that tunnel, she whispered, clutching Emilys wrist. You look exactly like my mother. Thats why I felt compelled to take the train to this city that night. I think I think my mother was guiding me here. Ive always felt shes watching over us, even if I cant see her.
The realization settled over them like a quiet snowfall, binding their fates together in a fragile, hopeful embrace.
