Shadows Behind the Glass
Every evening, precisely at six, Peter settled by the window. Not a minute sooner or later. As if an invisible mechanism inside him triggered the same ritual: boil the kettle, pick up a well-worn book, sit on the faded cushion by the sill. A steaming mug rested there, along with the book, and in the corner of the glass—a faint mist from his breath, left by the chill of a Manchester autumn. The room glowed under the warm light of an old lamp while dusk gathered slowly outside. His phone stayed silent. The telly remained off. Peter watched the courtyard—his little living theatre, where every gesture, every step, was part of a familiar play.
He was sixty-seven. His pension was modest, his health as fickle as the English weather—clear one moment, stormy the next. His blood pressure nagged him, his knees ached, but he carried on. He lived alone. His wife had slipped away six years ago—quietly, in her sleep, no suffering, or so they’d told him. Since then, the house had taken on a different sound: the echo of footsteps, the creak of floorboards, a silence that felt thicker. The children had scattered—his son in Glasgow, his daughter in France. They rang on holidays, spoke briefly, as though reporting in. Visited even less. But the courtyard—the courtyard was constant. Faithful as an old hound making its nightly rounds, never missing a corner.
The courtyard was plain, almost dreary: a lopsided bench, an old sycamore with peeling bark, a few parked cars, and a sandpit that had become a graveyard for cigarette butts and broken toys. The tarmac was cracked; in spring, puddles mirrored only grey skies and the dull windows of council flats. But Peter knew this place like his own reflection. He noticed who took out the rubbish, who lurked behind the garages with a bottle, who walked their dog, who lied about going to work but really wandered aimlessly. He read them like a book where every character played their part, never deviating from the script.
But the highlight—every evening, she walked past. A woman in a deep green coat. Tall, with proud posture, neatly pinned-up hair, and a book pressed to her chest. Always alone. No phone, no earphones. Her steps moved like notes of a silent melody she carried within. She walked unhurriedly but with purpose, as if she knew exactly where her path led. And every time she passed beneath his window, she glanced up. Sometimes a slight nod. Sometimes—the barest smile. A soft, weightless thing, as though it were a gift meant just for him. And that was enough. Enough to make the evening feel alive.
He didn’t know who she was. At first, he thought she might be new to the neighbouring block. But then he noticed—she never greeted anyone, wasn’t seen at the shop, seeming to appear from nowhere. Exactly at quarter past six. Like clockwork. Never rushed, never late, never straying from her route. There was something mesmerising about it—a constancy he craved in a life where everything else slipped through his fingers like sand.
Peter began to wait. He prepared. Donned a clean shirt, one that still held a trace of washing powder, dabbed on cologne even though he knew she wouldn’t smell it through the glass. Brewed fresh tea, set out three biscuits, as if expecting a visitor. He didn’t fool himself. He just wanted to feel like a man with a reason to be there. Not a spectator, but part of it—even in this quiet, nearly invisible play.
Then one day, she didn’t come. Another day passed. A week. Unease crept into his chest like a cold draft. It shouldn’t have mattered—but her absence felt like losing something vital. As if the world had gone silent without a sound he hadn’t even noticed before. He tried to read, turned on the wireless, but everything felt hollow. Like someone had switched off the lights in his theatre.
On the ninth day, he went down to the courtyard. For the first time in months—not for bread, not for medicine, just because. Sat on the bench, feeling the chill seep through his coat. He watched the wind tug at the sycamore’s bare branches, saw the neighbor’s cat slink toward the basement. Walked to the next block. Peered into windows—blue flicker of tellies, warm glow of lamps. Then—the bench by the postbox. And suddenly, there she was.
She sat hunched, like a schoolgirl, wrapped in a thin jumper too slight for the autumn wind. No sign of her coat. Her book lay open beside her, untouched, as though she’d changed her mind about reading.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice wavering just enough to betray him.
She looked up. Smiled—but there was sorrow in it, heavy as wet snow. As if words hadn’t touched her in ages, and silence had become part of her.
“I kept waiting for you to come down,” she said. “But you never did.”
He sat beside her. Said nothing. Then, as though exhaling, murmured, “I thought you’d gone.”
“Me too. Until I realised—you can’t disappear if someone remembers you.”
They sat until the courtyard drowned in darkness. People passed, shadows shifted, lights flickered on and off behind windows. The bench became an island where time stood still. Then he offered her tea. Simply, as though he’d always known he’d say it. She studied him—long, searching, as if testing whether this was real kindness or just manners. Then nodded. Firmly. Like someone making a choice.
She said yes.
Now they watched the courtyard together. At six. Still quiet. But the silence had changed—grown soft, cosy, like an old blanket. The breath-fog on the glass spread wider. The tea brewed stronger. Because now, it was for two.