Shadows and Coal
She had spent thirty-five years in this town, only to realise today that it had become a stranger to her. The revelation came without tears or sighs—just a cold, distant understanding, as if she had suddenly noticed her old coat was torn at the seams, yet she had kept wearing it anyway.
Eleanor woke at six in the morning. The flat was damp, the walls yielding to the chill as though they knew the heating had been turned off. The kettle hissed on the stove, steam whistling like a plea. Outside, rows of identical flats stretched into the gloom, shadows in the dawn light. A water bill sat on the windowsill, weighed down by a postcard from her daughter—sent two years ago. The silence was thick, unbroken by the telly or footsteps, the kind where every creak of your own soul echoes.
She went to the shop in worn jeans, her hair unbrushed, hood pulled low. The street glistened after the night’s downpour, the tarmac reflecting the grey sky as if pretending to be alive. The queue at the till was silent, like a train stuck between stations. Ahead of Eleanor stood a woman with a trolley—three bags of coal, four bottles of milk. Neatly arranged, as if listed in desperation.
“Planning to light the fireplace?” Eleanor asked, just to cut the heavy quiet.
The woman turned. Her eyes were hollow, but her voice was steady as stone.
“No. My mother died. Need to fix the hearth. And brew tea. For someone.”
The words held no emotion, yet they stung like shards. Eleanor nodded—not because she understood, but because she had no answer. What do you say when coal is for loneliness and milk for the hope someone might still come?
She left the shop and didn’t go home. The words echoed: *”And brew tea. For someone.”* It struck her then—she hadn’t made tea for anyone in years. Not even herself.
She wandered the town, every inch familiar: chipped benches, the chemist’s with its sour-faced staff, the house with a crack in the brickwork like an old scar. Every turn replaying the same worn-out tune. The people felt like strangers, as though the town had quietly swapped their faces while she wasn’t looking. No one from her past remained—just old letters, forgotten numbers, and unread texts.
Her daughter was in London. Her ex-husband—somewhere far. Work was a waste. Money wasn’t the wound. The flat felt like an old suitcase—too burdensome to carry, too heavy to abandon.
She took the bus to the station. No plan, no destination. Bought tea in a paper cup and a one-way ticket, picking a town at random. She needed somewhere life hadn’t frozen, where each day wasn’t a rerun but a fresh act.
On the train, she watched the fields, the pylons, the rare villages—frames of an old film. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not from sorrow, but relief, as though an invisible weight had lifted from her shoulders. They felt alive, washing away years of dust. She sent her daughter a voice note:
*”I’ve gone to live. I’ll explain later.”* Her voice trembled, but it held more light than fear. Her daughter replied:
*”Mum, you alright? I’m here.”* Those words carried warmth she hadn’t felt in years.
She rented a room in a hostel—bare walls, a stack of second-hand books on the desk. The next day, she got a job in a little shop selling candles and postcards. No one asked about her past. Later, she found a tiny flat with wooden floors that creaked like old memories and smelled of morning tea. She walked. Read. Listened. Noticed how the sunset changed the light, how rain tapped the roof, how the air smelled before a storm. This wasn’t about place—it was coming back to herself.
At the market one day, an old stallholder handed her a bag of pears and said, *”You’re not from here. But you belong.”* Not a compliment—a truth. Eleanor smiled, not politely, but genuinely. For the first time in years, she felt she was exactly where she should be. Something inside clicked, like a key turning.
Seven months later, she returned to her old town for a day—to collect papers, donate old things, say what needed saying. The place greeted her coldly: same puddles, same grey walls, same indifferent noise. The flat smelled abandoned, the furniture like relics of another life. She took the kettle and a photo of her daughter as a child, held it a long while. The rest she left—no pain, just ease, as if closing a book she’d read too long.
At the doorway, a neighbour called out:
“Ellie? That you? Where’ve you been? Thought you’d gone for good.”
The woman stood with a shopping bag, an old coat, curiosity but no warmth in her eyes.
Eleanor replied softly:
“I’m learning to breathe.”
The neighbour frowned, ready to ask more, but Eleanor was already walking away—light, free, 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 rebuilt—if you knew what it was for.