The Grey Mouse
Agatha peered out the window. Little children played in the playground while their mothers stood nearby, chatting as they kept half an eye on them. The bench by the entrance was dusted with snow.
She slipped on her black boots, a brown overcoat, and a matching knitted hat before grabbing her black leather handbag and stepping out of the flat. She paused for a moment, straining for any footsteps or voices on the stairs, then locked the door and descended.
From a distance, one might mistake her for an old woman. Only up close was it clear she was perhaps fifty, or even younger—an unremarkable face, small eyes, thin lips. You’d glance at her and forget the instant you looked away.
She’d moved into this building twenty-five years ago, keeping to herself, avoiding everyone. At first, as was customary, neighbours would knock—to borrow an onion, a cup of flour when the shops were too far. Agatha would open the door just a crack if she opened it at all, claim she had nothing, and slam it shut. Soon, they stopped bothering.
No one ever saw visitors. She seemed utterly alone in the world, which explained her skittishness.
Of course, she had family—a younger sister in a sleepy provincial town, married with children. But Agatha never kept in touch. Perhaps because all the beauty had gone to her sister instead. Who could say?
Strangers rarely set foot in her flat—only the odd plumber or gas inspector. She always demanded to see their credentials, scrutinised them, sometimes even rang their office to verify the visitor’s identity.
She never caused trouble. Never snapped, never gossiped, never spoke to anyone beyond a muttered greeting before hurrying past, head down.
Behind her back, the neighbours and coworkers called her a spinster, a grey mouse, a stiff old crow. She’d worked in the same office all her life as an accountant—stiff-backed, severe, but efficient. Always dressed in sombre skirts, her hair scraped back in a tight bun.
At thirty, she’d wanted a child of her own. And that was when the only man in her life appeared—a driver, William. He’d drop by occasionally. She’d buy him shirts, which he’d leave at her place. He was married.
Maybe his wife found out. Maybe a well-meaning colleague let slip about William’s dalliance with the bookkeeper. Either way, two months later, he quit and vanished. Agatha never got pregnant. It had been her only love.
She consoled herself quickly—better this way. A child would have been a burden, and who knew what kind of son she’d raise? She didn’t want a daughter, either—no need to bring another plain, lonely soul like hers into the world.
Once, she’d bought a heavy bag of groceries. A man offered to carry it home for her.
“I can manage,” she said, fixing him with a glare that sent him scurrying.
“Trying to help, was he?” she thought on her way back. “More like sizing me up—rob me, bash my head in, and leave me for dead. Not this time.”
No one could swindle her. She calculated sums in her head like a human calculator. A cashier could ring up a bill, and she’d know at once if she’d been cheated—no shouting, just a cold, silent stare until the cashier blushed, recounted, and handed back the difference.
One Saturday morning, close to Christmas, her doorbell rang timidly. Agatha waited, listening. It rang again. She peered through the peephole—for a moment, she thought it was her sister standing there.
“Who is it?” she asked, though her pulse fluttered strangely.
“Aunt Agatha, it’s me—Emily. Your niece.” The voice was muffled by the door.
“My niece? What do you want?”
“How did you even find me?” she wondered. Then she remembered—years ago, she’d visited her sister and mother to boast about her new flat and her life. She must have given the address then. Just in case. All these years, no one had disturbed her. She hadn’t even known she had a niece. So her sister had married, had a daughter. The thought twisted Agatha’s lips into a sneer.
She never went back. Nothing to boast about now.
“Aunt Agatha, please—I need to talk to you.”
Whether it was the trembling in Emily’s voice or sheer curiosity, Agatha broke her own rules and opened the door.
“Why are you here?” she demanded from the threshold.
She studied the girl—tall, pretty, with the same grey eyes as her sister but warm instead of cold. Dark curls escaped from under her hat.
Emily hesitated, waiting for an invitation inside. When none came, she rushed on, afraid the door might shut in her face.
“Aunt Agatha, I’ve nowhere else to go. My son—he’s very ill. We took him to London, to a specialist. He says he needs surgery. Now.” She paused, hoping for a response. Agatha just stared.
“It’s expensive. I’ve asked everyone, but it’s too much. Mum said you might help. So I came.” Her voice cracked. “Please. You should see him—” She covered her face with her hands, swaying as she sobbed.
Something in Agatha’s chest twitched—a dull ache at the sight of tears, the mention of a sick child. She imagined it was her own son suffering, herself begging for help. Pity tightened her throat—for herself, for the crying girl, for a boy she’d never known existed until now.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside. She shut the door and eyed Emily’s snow-damp boots pointedly.
“I’ll just—” Agatha disappeared into the flat.
She didn’t offer to take Emily’s coat. The girl lingered in the hallway, then peeked into the living room—spotless, modern, expensive. The kind of place you’d see in films, not real life. She perched on the edge of a footstool, afraid to disturb anything.
Mum had warned her: “Aunt Agatha’s odd. Lives alone. Doubt she’ll help.” But there was no one else. “She’ll probably say no,” Emily thought bleakly.
“It’s lovely here,” she blurted when Agatha returned.
“Take this. For your boy.” Agatha thrust a thick envelope at her. “It’s enough for the surgery.”
Emily rose, taking it gingerly, as if it might explode. She pressed it to her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered, dazed.
“How old is he?” Agatha asked stiffly.
“Two years, three months. He’s so clever, so sweet—you’d adore him—”
Agatha winced. Motherhood had passed her by—why should she listen to others’ joy? She just wanted the girl to leave. But Emily babbled on, weeping, thanking her.
“Do you have a husband?” Agatha cut in.
“A husband?” Emily blinked. “Yes, but—”
“Drinks, does he?”
“No! He’s—he’s overseas. Signed up to earn money for our son, but it’s still not enough.” Her voice faltered at the mention of him.
“How will you get the money home? Aren’t you afraid?”
“I’ll hide it.” Emily opened her coat—a cloth bag hung around her neck, long straps tied tight. She tucked the envelope inside, the bulge beneath her coat like a pregnancy. “No one will guess.”
“Go straight home. No detours.”
“I will! Thank you—anything you need, just ask!” Emily seized Agatha’s hand, pressing wet kisses to it.
Agatha jerked free.
“Write after the surgery,” she said, holding the door open.
“I will!” Emily called from the stairs.
Agatha locked up, eyeing the wet footprints on the floor. She meant to wipe them, then stopped. Bad luck to clean up while the girl was still travelling. Blood was blood, after all.
She went to the window. Snow drifted down, turning the courtyard festive. Emily hurried away below. Suddenly, Agatha wanted to put on her fur coat and step outside.
She’d owned it for years but never worn it out. Just tried it on before the mirror, then tucked it away. Too grand for the shops or work. What if someone mugged her? Left her bleeding in an alley?
But now she thought—life was slipping by, and she hadn’t lived at all. Hiding, fearing. Who’d get the coat after she died? That wide-eyed niece, most likely. Let her have it, then. Better than a stranger.
She put it on, stepped out. Somehow, she felt taller in it—grander. The snow crunched underfoot. She walked with her chin up, a faint smile on her lips. Reached the square with its towering Christmas tree, children darting about, parents snapping photos.
“Could you help us?” A young man held out his phone.
Agatha bristled, ready to turn away—but something in his face stopped her.
“What?”
“Could you take our picture?”
“How?”
She pressed the button, handed back the phone, and walked away with the ghost of a smile still touching her lips, knowing that for once, she had stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
