The Silent Rain
On the seventh day without rain in Manchester, the heat was so thick it felt like the air might shatter. Everything hung in a heavy silence—the pavement melted, the lift groaned, people spoke through gritted teeth. Even the fly buzzing against the window sounded like it knew something terrible, something no one else did.
Emily woke in the dead of night—not from a noise or movement, but like someone was watching her. The room was stifling, the windows shut tight. At night, what drifted in wasn’t a breeze, but drunken shouts and the stale reek of cigarettes. The air was lifeless, like a forgotten attic. Her skin burned, not from the heat, but something older, something buried.
The kitchen tap dripped. She got up barefoot, avoiding the creaky floorboards. A mug lay shattered on the tiles, water pooled around it. She lived alone. Hadn’t called anyone. But suddenly, that didn’t feel certain.
Back in bed, sleep wouldn’t come. The pillow was like stone, the sheets damp. It wasn’t a voice or a memory—just the sense of someone sitting in the dark beside her. A silence that rang.
Morning brought a text from her mum:
“Could you call? Dad’s worse. We don’t know what to do. If you hadn’t left that day…”
That “day” hit her like a punch. Two years since she’d slammed the door and walked out. Not in anger. In exhaustion. Dad drank. Mum stayed quiet. She’d chosen to run—not to freedom, but silence. Back then, it felt like the only way to breathe. Now, she wasn’t sure she was even the same person.
Work was a disaster. Coffee stains on reports, the printer chewing up files, clients screaming down the phone. Her head buzzed like a trapped insect. Colleagues chattered, the boss eyed her like he was waiting for her to fail. Inside, she felt it—something about to snap. Not outward. Inward.
That evening, outside her building, she spotted Mrs. Wilkins, the old neighbour. She held a yellowed newspaper, spotting Emily, she murmured:
“You ought to visit your parents. Your dad’s a shadow. Your mum just drinks tea. You’re their only one…”
Emily froze. Wanted to reply, but couldn’t. Just nodded. And in that nod wasn’t agreement, but… the last bit of warmth left in her.
She barely slept that night. Thought of a stool, tea, the window. Why those things? Ordinary, but painfully hers.
Morning came. She packed a bag. The train to York took just over three hours. She stared out the window the whole way. Not thinking. Just looking. So she wouldn’t feel.
Her dad lay in the same room where she’d slept on a camp bed as a kid. A frail shadow. Silent, searching her face for something. Mum stirred soup, called his name—as if words could tether him here. Emily just sat. And for the first time in years, the silence in that house felt alive.
On the third day, he asked for water. Then to walk. He leaned on the walls, stubborn. Mum whispered:
“It’s like he’s back. Maybe he knows you’re home…”
Emily didn’t answer. Just stayed. Made stew. Wiped the sills. Told him stories, like when she was small. He listened. Sometimes smiled. Sometimes just held her hand.
On the fourth day, it rained. Soft, no thunder. Just water. Real. Alive.
A week later, her dad stood on his own. Looked at her and said:
“Sorry. For everything.”
He didn’t say what. Didn’t need to. Those two words held it all. She nodded. Not right away. First, she checked—was this really him? Then, she nodded. And for the first time, the quiet wasn’t angry. Wasn’t pain.
She stayed another week. Brought groceries. Read aloud. Sat in silence with him. Then left. And from then on, she called them every Sunday. No reason. Just to keep the thread from fraying.
Sometimes, late at night, as she drifted off, she’d hear a kettle whistle in another flat. A simple sound. But in it—everything. Life. Connection. Home.
Just in case.
