**Shadows and Coal**
I spent thirty-five years in this city, and only today did I realise it had become a stranger to me. The realisation didn’t come with tears or a heavy sigh—just a cold, detached understanding, like noticing an old coat had frayed at the seams long ago, yet I’d kept wearing it anyway.
Margaret woke at six. The flat was damp, as if the walls had given up resisting the chill the moment the heating failed. In the kitchen, an ancient kettle hissed, spewing steam with a shrill whistle. Outside, rows of identical high-rises stretched into the murky dawn, dull as shadows. On the windowsill, a water bill lay pinned under a postcard from her daughter, sent years ago. Silence. The kind no telly or footsteps could drown out. The kind where every creak in your soul echoed.
She ventured out to the shop—worn jeans, tangled hair, hood pulled low. The street gleamed after last night’s downpour, tarmac mirroring the grey sky like it was pretending to breathe. The queue at the till was hushed, a motionless train stuck at a station. Ahead of Margaret stood a woman with a trolley—three bags of coal, four bottles of milk. Neatly arranged, like a list scribbled in desperation.
“Stocking up for winter?” Margaret asked, just to cut the silence.
The woman turned. Her eyes were hollow, but her voice was concrete:
“No. Mum’s gone. Need to fix the fireplace. And brew tea. For someone.”
There was no emotion in it, yet the words sliced like glass. Margaret nodded—not because she understood, but because she had no reply. What do you say when coal is for loneliness, and milk is hoping someone might still come?
She left the shop and didn’t go home. The words looped in her head: *And brew tea. For someone.* And then it hit her—she hadn’t made tea for anyone in years. Not even herself.
Margaret wandered streets that were achingly familiar: peeling park benches, a chemist’s with perpetually scowling staff, buildings with cracks like old scars. Every corner, every step—a scratched record playing the same tune. The faces around her felt foreign, as if the city had swapped them all when she wasn’t looking. No one from her past remained—just old letters, forgotten numbers, unread texts.
Her daughter—in London. Ex-husband—somewhere beyond the horizon. Work—a waste of hours. Money hadn’t broken her heart. The flat was an old suitcase: too heavy to carry, too burdensome to abandon.
She boarded a bus to the station. No plan. Bought tea in a paper cup and a one-way ticket. Chose a town at random, stabbing a finger at the timetable. She needed somewhere life hadn’t frozen, where each day wasn’t a rerun but a fresh scene.
On the train, fields and telephone poles flickered past the window like scenes from an old film. Tears rolled down her cheeks—not from grief, but relief, as if someone had lifted a weight she’d carried for years without noticing. They were alive, those tears, washing dust from her soul. She sent her daughter a voice note: “Gone to live. I’ll explain later.” Her voice shook, but there was light in it. Her daughter replied: “Mum, you alright? I’m here.” Warmth. The kind she’d missed for years.
Margaret rented a hostel room—bare walls, a stack of dog-eared books. The next day, she took a job in a shop selling candles and postcards. No one asked about her past. Later, a tiny flat with wooden floors that creaked like old memories, the scent of morning tea in the air. She started walking. Reading. Listening. Noticing—how sunset painted the walls, how rain drummed the roof, how the air smelled before a storm. This was her return—not to a place, but to herself.
One market day, an elderly vendor handed her a bag of pears and said, “You’re not from here. But you belong.” Not a compliment—a fact. Margaret smiled. Not politely, but truly. For the first time in years, she felt her place was here, now. Something clicked inside, like a key turning.
Seven months passed.
Margaret returned to her old city for a day—to collect papers, donate old things, say what needed saying. The city greeted her coldly: same puddles, same grey bricks, same indifferent hum. Her flat smelled of abandonment. The furniture stood like monuments to the past, yet felt alien. The air was thick, like a room where no one opens windows. She took the kettle and a photo of her daughter as a child, holding it for a long time. The rest, she left. No pain. Just ease, like closing a book she’d read too long.
At the staircase, a neighbour called out:
“Marg, that you? Where’ve you been? Thought you’d vanished for good.”
The woman stood with a shopping bag, an old coat, curiosity in her eyes but no warmth.
Margaret replied softly:
“I’m learning to breathe.”
The neighbour frowned, ready to pry, but Margaret was already descending the steps—light, free, no keys in her pocket. No looking back.
In her rucksack: milk and a bag of coal. Just in case. A reminder—life can be rebuilt, if you know what for.
