Glass Held Together by Hope
When Emily woke, the room was bright, but the air still carried the scent of last night’s dinner—slightly burnt roast potatoes, a touch too salty, with a crisp edge. Just how she liked them—flavoured with something homely, imperfect yet comforting. The room breathed silence, thick and heavy, as if night hadn’t fully left but hid behind the wardrobe, unwilling to let go.
The other side of the bed was empty. On the pillow, a dent. The kind that told you someone had left recently. Carefully. Without a sound. That dent was like a scream, only silent. Louder than any words.
Emily pulled the blanket around herself, sat up, and glanced toward the window. It was crisscrossed with strips of yellowed tape, damp at the edges. As a child in Coventry, she’d done this with her grandmother—against storms, against the wind. Now, it was against fear. Against war. Against explosions. And this time, without laughter. Without peppermint tea.
Her husband was in Manchester. A volunteer. An electrician. He’d gone to mend broken power lines. Said, *“If not me, then who?”* and smiled. That smile—delicate, fragile as spider silk—would haunt Emily’s dreams for nights to come. In them, he walked away without turning back, vanishing into a haze of light. He’d kissed her forehead, smoothed their daughter’s hair—as if he’d just stepped out for bread.
Their daughter, Lucy, was nine. She slept in the next room, curled tight under an old owl-patterned duvet. One arm stretched toward an empty space—where a stuffed bear had once been. No one remembered where it went. On the wall hung a poster drawn in spring: a house with an orange roof, flowers by the doorstep, and the words, *“Love lives here. Leave us be.”* The colours had faded, the edges curled, but it still hung there. A quiet talisman. A taped-up prayer.
Emily reheated porridge, poured herself coffee—the slightly burnt taste mixing with instant’s bitterness, familiar, almost like home. She perched on the windowsill, tucked her feet onto a stool, and stared at the crack in her mug. Just like the one in her heart—old, unhealing. Every corner of the flat knew what it meant to wait. Knew the sounds, the smells, the breath of dread.
Two messages from her husband blinked on her phone:
*Power’s back on.*
*Found a boy and his cat sleeping in a basement. In a rucksack. Together.*
Emily stared at the screen. Simple words, yet they cut deep. They held more truth than anything around her.
She tapped a heart. Deleted it. Typed, *“Stay safe.”* Deleted it. Then just: *“Are you alive?”*—and sent it.
No reply. The fridge clicked in the silence—as if shuddering with her.
At noon, Aunt Maggie from downstairs popped in. Wiry, quick-moving, her voice always on the edge. She brought a tin of stew and three eggs.
*“From the relief parcels. You need it more. You’ve got the little one.”*
Emily thanked her, eyes down.
*“Saw the first floor’s windows taped up again. Just like in the Blitz. History repeats, eh?”*
Emily understood. Wanted to say something, but the words stuck—somewhere between her ribs and memory.
*“Back then, we drew crosses. Prayed. Now we tape. Stay quiet. Still hope. Foolish, isn’t it? But people do.”*
Emily nodded. Slowly. Firmly. She knew.
The next morning, Lucy asked:
*“Mum, what if Dad doesn’t come back?”*
Emily sat beside her, cupped her face, felt the tremble in her cheeks.
*“He will. Even if it takes time. He knows the way. And he knows we’re waiting.”*
*“What if he forgets?”*
*“He won’t.”* She brushed a thumb over Lucy’s freckles. *“He remembers how you laughed when you dropped the jam. How you hid from thunder. Your drawings. The smell of cinnamon in the kitchen. He remembers everything.”*
Lucy nodded, fighting tears. Then whispered:
*“Do the taped-up windows… really help?”*
Emily watched the strips flutter in the draft. Like a heartbeat.
*“Not really. But they make it less scary. Like… hugging the house. Letting it know we’re here. It’s not alone.”*
Lucy pressed her palm to the glass. Quiet.
That evening, Emily turned on the desk lamp and wrote:
*“Lucy misses you.”*
An hour later, the reply came:
*“Miss you both.”*
That night, they slept as three—Emily, Lucy, and Hope. The kind that doesn’t take up space, or snore, or fidget. But it’s warm. It breathed with them, somewhere between faith and sleep. Lucy held her mother’s hand. Tight.
By morning, the tape on the window had lightened—as if soaking up some of the dark. Sunlight seeped through it softly, like light through chapel glass.
And when Emily woke, the room smelled of something more than food—of return. Not footsteps. Not voices. Just presence. As if someone had sighed beside her. She didn’t rush to the door. Just sat, listening. Holding onto that air. That scent. That Hope.