The Grey Mouse
Agnes peered out the window. Children played in the park while their mothers stood nearby, chatting as they kept watch. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
She slipped into her black boots, pulled on a brown overcoat and matching knitted hat, grabbed her leather handbag, and stepped out of the flat. Pausing for a moment, she listened for footsteps or voices on the stairs, then locked the door and descended.
From a distance, she might have been mistaken for an elderly woman. Only up close could one see she was perhaps fifty, maybe younger. Her face was plain—small eyes, thin lips, unremarkable in every way. You’d glance at her and forget her the next second.
She had moved into this building twenty-five years ago. She spoke to no one, avoided them all. At first, neighbours had knocked—borrowing an onion, a cup of flour when the shops were closed. Agnes would open the door only a crack, if at all, mutter that she had nothing to spare, then shut it in their faces. Soon, they stopped asking.
No one ever saw visitors. She seemed utterly alone in the world, which explained her skittish, withdrawn nature.
Of course, she had family. A younger sister lived in a quiet market town with her husband and children. But Agnes kept her distance. Perhaps because all the beauty had gone to her sister. Who could say?
Strangers rarely crossed her threshold—only the odd plumber or gas inspector. Even then, Agnes demanded identification, scrutinised it, sometimes even phoned their office to verify their identity.
She harmed no one. Never spoke harshly, never gossiped, never engaged. A muttered greeting, then she’d hurry past, head bowed.
Behind her back, they called her “the spinster,” “the grey mouse,” or worse. She had worked all her life in the same accounting firm—quiet, efficient, always in a dark, severe dress, her hair scraped back into a tight bun.
At thirty, she had longed for a child of her own. That was when the lorry driver, Albert, slipped into her life. He visited occasionally. She bought him shirts he never took home, leaving them at her flat. He was married.
Whether his wife found out or a gossipy colleague intervened, Albert vanished within months—resigned, gone without a trace. Agnes never fell pregnant. It was her only love.
She soothed herself quickly. Better this way. Raising a child alone was hard, and who knew how a son might turn out? As for a daughter—she’d never wanted one. Why bring another plain, lonely soul into the world?
Once, laden with shopping bags, a man offered to help her carry them home.
“I can manage,” she snapped, her glare sending him scurrying.
*As if. He’d help me home, then rob me blind. Not falling for that.*
She was impossible to cheat. Numbers ran through her mind like clockwork. A cashier might mischarge her, and without a word, Agnes would fix them with a cold stare until they recounted the change.
One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, a timid knock rattled her door. Agnes waited, listening. The knock came again. She peered through the peephole—and for a moment, thought it was her sister.
“Who is it?” she asked, though her pulse quickened.
“Aunt Agnes, it’s me—Emily, your niece.”
“Niece? What do you want?” Suspicion edged her voice.
*How did she find me? And why?* Then she remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister to flaunt her new flat and life. She must have left the address. All these years, no one had bothered her. She hadn’t even known she had a niece. Her sister had married, had a daughter. The thought twisted her lips.
She’d never gone back. What was there to boast about now?
“Aunt Agnes, I need to speak with you. Please.” The girl’s voice wavered.
Whether it was the pleading tone or sheer curiosity, Agnes relented and opened the door.
“What do you want?” she demanded, studying the girl—taller than her, with the same soft features as her sister, though her grey eyes were bright, not cold. Dark curls escaped from under her hat.
Emily waited, hoping for an invitation inside. When none came, she rushed on.
“My son’s very ill. We took him to London, to a specialist. He needs an operation—urgently.” She paused, but Agnes said nothing. “We’ve asked everyone, but the cost is too much. Mum said only you could help. So I came.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. If you could see him—” She covered her face, shoulders shaking.
Something in Agnes’s chest twitched. For a moment, she imagined it was *her* son suffering, *her* begging for help. Pity coiled inside her—for Emily, for the boy she’d never met, for herself.
“Come in,” Agnes said stiffly, noting the melted snow on Emily’s boots. “Wait here.”
She returned with a thick envelope. “Take it. It’s all there.”
Emily stared, hesitant.
“It’s for your son. Go on.”
Clutching the envelope to her chest, Emily whispered, “Thank you.”
“How old is he?”
“Two. He’s so sweet, so clever—” She babbled, the way doting mothers do.
Agnes flinched. That happiness had passed her by. Why listen to another’s joy? She just wanted Emily gone. But the girl kept thanking her, weeping.
“Your husband. Does he work?” Agnes cut in.
“Husband? He—he’s away. Signed up as a contractor overseas. For the money. But it’s still not enough.” Her voice faltered.
“How will you get home safely with this?”
Emily opened her coat, revealing a cloth pouch strapped beneath her dress. She tucked the envelope inside, smoothing her coat over the bulge. No one would guess.
“Take it straight home. Don’t stop.”
Emily nodded, then suddenly seized Agnes’s hand and kissed it. Agnes jerked back.
“Write after the operation,” she said, opening the door.
“I will!” Emily called from the stairs.
Agnes locked up, staring at the wet footprints on the floor. She meant to wipe them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean while she was still travelling. Family, after all.
Through the window, snow drifted softly. The courtyard sparkled. She watched Emily hurry away, and suddenly, she longed to go out herself.
She owned a fur coat—bought years ago, never worn beyond her mirror. Too risky for errands. Someone might snatch it. But now, she thought: *Life’s passing me by. Who’ll wear it when I’m gone? That wide-eyed niece, I suppose. Let her have it.*
She put it on, stepped outside, and for the first time, felt tall, proud. Snow crunched underfoot. Reaching the square, she paused by the Christmas tree, watching children dart about while parents filmed them.
“Excuse me—could you take our picture?” A young man held out his phone.
Agnes recoiled, ready to walk away, but something in his smile stopped her.
“How?” she fumbled.
“Just point and press here.”
She did. Then, on impulse, she bought a cake in the shop. *Why?* Because everyone else was. For once, she did as others did.
At home, she stared at the cake. She hated sweets—indulgences, she called them. Next door, the neighbour’s grandsons shrieked. Without thinking, she knocked.
The plump woman gaped. “Everything all right?”
“Give this to your boys.” She thrust the box into her hands and retreated before the woman could react.
The next day, a telegram arrived—Emily had made it home safely. They’d leave for London tomorrow.
Only then did Agnes realise she’d never asked the boy’s name. *What if it’s Albert?* she mused. *A soft name, like the sky. Maybe my life wasn’t wasted.* The fears lifted. She felt light, unburdened.
Three weeks later, another letter: the operation was a success. Little Albert would recover. Emily promised to visit in summer—or better yet, why didn’t Agnes come to them? The garden would be ripe with berries, the river near the house… They’d wait for her. Maybe her husband would be home by then, safe from the war.
And for the first time, Agnes let herself imagine it.
