Unclosed Windows
Emily heard her own voice for the first time in months. It came out hoarse, tight, as if fighting its way through layers of dust settled on her vocal cords and on time itself:
“Good morning.”
It wasn’t an address—just a trial step. The voice sounded unsure whether it had the right to exist. It belonged to another life—the one where bathroom doors slammed in the morning, kettles bubbled in the kitchen, and little bare feet ran to show her the pea sprouting on damp cotton wool in an old jam jar.
Emily opened her eyes to thick silence. The ceiling—dull, greyish, like bleached-out sky—hung above her, flat and lifeless. The flat was warm, but a faint draught nudged the edge of the curtain. She’d left the window open again. Or maybe not forgotten—left it deliberately. Just in case childish laughter drifted in from outside. Or footsteps. Or breathing.
She lay on her back, motionless, as if staring long enough might reveal a path in the cracks of the plaster—a route out of this endless grey room and, more importantly, out of herself.
The kitchen was frozen in place. A mug of dried-up coffee on the windowsill, waiting for yesterday to restart. A browning apple on the chopping board, as forgotten as half-finished conversations. And a photo on the fridge: a six-year-old boy in an astronaut costume, grinning wide and bright, as if about to ask, “Mum, will I really fly one day?”
She hadn’t touched the photo in over a year. Her hand would hover, afraid to smudge the memory. The magnet holding it up was from a children’s eye clinic—almost laughable, looking back. They’d gone in for a routine check-up, her son complaining that letters “ran away” when he read. And then… it didn’t end with a prescription or glasses. It ended differently. With something no one is ever ready for. And no way back.
By the front door—tiny trainers with blue Velcro straps. Dusty. Quiet. Silent witnesses to time. Every day, Emily walked past them with a flutter in her chest, as if brushing against them might make everything collapse. Just a pair of children’s shoes—plastic, fabric, soles. But really, an entire life. A tiny universe squeezed into twenty centimetres.
She used to love mornings. Brewing coffee, playing music. Now—just green tea, no sugar, no lemon. The bitterness clung to her throat like unspoken words. Outside, the city slowly stirred: buses, cigarette smoke, a dog barking, neighbours shouting. Life went on, unaware that somewhere nearby, someone had stopped living long ago.
Emily had taught literature. At a college in Manchester. She adored Austen—for restraint, for pain tucked between lines, for pauses where she could hide. After… she left. First, on sick leave. Then into nothing. Never went back. Couldn’t. Then didn’t want to. Reading became unbearable—words clawed at her ribs from within.
In spring, a friend dragged her to a support group. The smell of cheap vending-machine coffee, grey walls worn down by time and strangers’ stories. She remembered a woman in a red jumper who’d lost her husband. A twenty-year-old boy, silent all evening, gripping his backpack. No one screamed. But the air hummed with pain, like a plucked guitar 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 grieve aloud. So she left. Quietly. Never returned.
Sometimes, she wrote letters. Never sent them. Just saved them. A folder on her laptop called “Drafts.” She wrote to him.
“You’d be in Year Two now. You’d probably hate porridge. We’d argue in the mornings. Or maybe you’d be calm. You’d know how my hair smells. I’d braid it if you were a girl. But you’re a boy. My astronaut. My ‘Mum, look!’ My hope.”
Sometimes she didn’t finish. Just a full stop. No explanation.
Today, her voice didn’t come from emptiness—but from somewhere deep. Not pleading, not calling, not aching. Just there. And suddenly, that was enough.
For the first time in forever, Emily wanted to go outside. Just step out. No reason. Just feel the pavement under her feet—ground that hadn’t known her steps in so long.
She grabbed her coat. Dusty from disuse. Pulled on her boots. Paused. Listened to the old floorboards creak underfoot. Inside, a strange shiver. Not fear. Not pain. Something else—like a homecoming.
She walked to the fridge. Took the photo. Carefully peeled off the magnet. Ran a finger over her son’s face, his wide, living smile.
“Come on, my astronaut. I need to learn how to live again,” she whispered.
Opened the door. Took a step. Then another.
And for the first time that whole year—she closed the window.
Not from pain. Not from fear. Just because she finally understood: it was okay now. And maybe… necessary.
