Shadows and Coal
She had spent thirty-five years in this town, and only today did she realise it had become foreign to her. The revelation came without tears or even a heavy sigh—just a cold, almost indifferent understanding, as if she had suddenly noticed the old coat she still wore was frayed at the seams.
Eleanor woke at six. The flat was damp, the walls long resigned to the absence of heating. In the kitchen, the kettle hissed, spurting steam with a weary whistle. Outside, the dreary rows of terraced houses stretched on, indistinguishable as shadows in the dawn’s half-light. A water bill lay on the windowsill, pinned beneath a postcard from her daughter, sent two years ago. Silence. The kind not broken by the telly or the shuffle of feet. The kind where every creak in the soul echoed.
She went to the shops—worn-out jeans, tangled hair, hood pulled low. The street shimmered after the night’s rain, the pavement mirroring the grey sky as if pretending to be alive. The queue at the till was silent, like a stalled train. In front of Eleanor stood a woman with a trolley of coal and milk—three bags of coal, four bottles of milk, neatly arranged, as if from a list written in desperation.
“Stocking up for winter?” Eleanor asked, just to puncture the thick quiet.
The woman turned. Her eyes were hollow, but her voice was firm as stone.
“No. Mum’s gone. Got to fix the fireplace. Make tea. For someone.”
There was no grief in the words, but they cut like glass. Eleanor nodded—not because she understood, but because she had no answer. What could one say when coal was for solitude, and milk for the hope that someone might still come?
She left the shop and never went home. The words echoed in her head: “Make tea. For someone.” And suddenly, it was clear—she hadn’t made tea for anyone in years. Not even herself.
Eleanor wandered through the town, every inch of it achingly familiar: the peeling benches, the chemist’s with its sour-faced staff, the house with the crack in its front like an old scar. Every corner, every step—a scratched record playing the same dull tune. The people around her seemed strangers, as if the town had quietly swapped their faces, leaving only emptiness. No one from her past remained—all dissolved into old letters, forgotten numbers, and unread texts.
Her daughter—in London. The ex-husband—somewhere beyond the horizon. Work—a waste of time. Money was there, but it wasn’t what ached. The flat—like an old suitcase: too heavy to carry, too familiar to leave.
She boarded a bus to the station. No plan. No destination. Bought tea in a cardboard cup and a one-way ticket. Chose a town at random, jabbing a finger at the timetable. She needed a place where life hadn’t frozen, where each day wasn’t a rerun but a new act.
On the train, she watched the world through the window—fields, telegraph poles, the odd village—frames from an old film. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not from sorrow, but relief, as if someone had lifted an invisible weight she’d carried for years without noticing. They were alive, those tears, washing the dust from her soul. She sent her daughter a voice note: “I’ve gone to live. I’ll explain later.” Her voice shook, but there was light in it, not fear. Her daughter replied: “Mum, you alright? I’m with you.” The words held a warmth she’d missed for years.
Eleanor rented a room in a guesthouse—bare walls, a stack of secondhand books on the table. The next day, she started at a little shop selling candles and postcards. No one asked about her past. Later, she found a flat—tiny, with wooden floors that creaked like old memories and the scent of morning tea. She began to walk. To read. To listen. To notice—how the light changed at dusk, how rain tapped the roof, how the air smelled before a storm. It was a return—not to a place, but to herself.
One day at the market, an old vendor handed her a bag of pears and said, “You’re not from here. But you belong.” It wasn’t a compliment—it was truth. Eleanor smiled, not out of politeness, but because she meant it. For the first time in years, she felt her place was here and now. Something inside clicked, like a key in a lock.
Seven months passed.
Eleanor returned to her old town—just for a day. To collect papers. To give away old things. To say what needed saying. The town greeted her coldly—the same puddles, the same grey walls, the same indifferent noise. The flat smelled of abandonment. The furniture stood like monuments to the past, yet none of it felt hers. The air was thick, like a room where no one opened windows. She took the kettle and a photo of her daughter as a child, holding it a long while. The rest, she left. Without pain. With ease, as if closing a book she’d read too long.
At the door, a neighbour called out:
“Ellie? That you? Where’ve you been? Thought you’d gone for good.”
The neighbour stood with a shopping bag, in an old coat, curiosity in her eyes but no warmth.
Eleanor answered softly:
“I’m learning to breathe.”
The neighbour frowned, about to ask more, but Eleanor was already descending the stairs. Lightly. Freely. No keys in her pocket. No looking back.
In her rucksack were milk and a bag of coal. Just in case. A reminder—that life could be built anew, if one knew what for.