A Fresh Start
When he returned, no one was there to meet him. No flowers, no reprimands. No questions, no embraces. Just silence—thick and heavy, as if he hadn’t been gone five years but had simply stepped out for cigarettes and forgotten to come back. His absence hadn’t been a wound, just a yawning void the city seemed not to notice.
The stairwell was the same, but the door to his flat had been repainted—from faded blue to a chilly grey, like someone had tried to scrub away all trace of him. Neighbours had changed. Locks had changed. The letterbox hung crooked, a rusty gash in the metal as if someone had tried to pry it open and given up. He slid in the key. The lock clicked with a rough snap, like an old joint reluctantly bending, but it let him in.
Inside, darkness reigned. The air was stale, like in an abandoned house where time doesn’t move but settles as dust. It smelled of damp and something forgotten, as if memories were hiding in the gaps of the floorboards. He sank onto the old sofa, brushed a hand across the fabric—dust left a mark, like a fingerprint on a discarded photograph. There was more life in that smudge than in the words *I’m back.* Because home didn’t exist anymore—it had to be built again.
A thousand and a half days gone. First, prison. Then, struggling to get back on his feet. The last few months—no slip-ups. No looking back. Letters barely came. Not from family, not from old mates. Oddly, that freed him: no waiting, no hoping, no excuses. The worst thing wasn’t the past, but the emptiness—knowing your days meant nothing to anyone.
In the kitchen, a kettle still stood. Battered, lid cracked, but alive. He turned on the hob, poured water in. It ran murky, tinged with rust, like it was holding onto some old grudge. The pipes groaned, whispering things long buried. He yanked the window open. Cold air slipped in like an uninvited guest—sharp, but real. He breathed deep. Not because he wanted to. Because it was the first step in learning how to breathe again.
In the wardrobe, an old jacket hung, sun-bleached and smelling of damp and time. He put it on and stepped outside. Walked slowly, as if afraid to startle himself. Hands in pockets, fingers clenched—not from the cold, just the tightness inside. The city was the same: same cracks in the pavement, same peeling walls. But he stared at it like it was some alien world. With every step, something in him flickered awake, piecing itself back together.
At the bus stop, a woman stood with a boy. The boy stared, unblinking. He smiled—small, barely there. The boy frowned, ducked behind his mother, then peeked out again. That tiny glance was enough to light a spark in his chest: *Maybe something’s still possible.*
He bought bread, milk, and a box of matches. Simple things—proof you could start small. The cashier rang them up in silence but looked at him. Not with scorn, just emptiness—like he was a shadow the light had skipped. That stung worse than open disgust.
At home, he sat at the table, tore off a chunk of bread, poured milk into a chipped mug. Ate slowly, savouring each bite as if relearning not just how to eat, but how to live. Listened to the quiet, the clink of the spoon, the hum of the street outside. Then stood before the mirror. Studied his reflection like a stranger he’d need to know all over again. Smiled. Awkward, but real. The first thing he’d done just for himself.
Morning came at five. He scrubbed the floors till they gleamed, the stiff bristles scraping like he wasn’t just cleaning but erasing. Went to the market. Bought a hammer and nails. Knocked on the neighbour’s door—offered to fix a shelf. Spoke softly, almost whispering, but with quiet pride, like someone who wanted not just to *be*, but to matter.
“Who are you?” she asked, squinting as if trying to place him.
“I used to live here. Going to again,” he said, looking down but not away.
She hesitated, then let him in. The flat smelled of stew and old paper. The shelf in the hallway sagged, ready to collapse.
He tightened the screws, wiped his hands on a rag. “Anything else need fixing? Squeaky window? Faulty socket?”
She studied him, then fetched a light bulb. “If it’s no trouble… My daughter’s always saying she’ll pop round, but… life, you know.”
He screwed it in. Light spilled warm and bright, making the room feel alive again.
“Thank you,” she said. A pause. “You… alright?”
He shrugged, half-smiled. “Learning. Fresh start. Not from scratch, but close.”
She nodded, like she understood more than he’d said.
That evening, he sat by the window. Watched teenagers kick a ball. An old woman scattering crumbs for sparrows. A couple embracing under the dim glow of a streetlamp. A light going out in the window opposite, then flicking back on—someone just up for tea.
Life as usual.
He opened the window. Watched the courtyard where the lamp cast long shadows on wet tarmac. Where two people shared a cigarette, pressed close. Where another window showed a figure moving—maybe a woman boiling a kettle, maybe just someone’s ordinary night.
He watched till the cold crept under his jacket, then shut the pane. Went to bed—for once without gritted teeth, without the weight in his chest, without dreading tomorrow. Because he’d figured it out: if you start with bread, with a bulb, with a single step—there’s a chance. Fragile. But real. And if the chance is real… well, maybe he is too.
