The old curmudgeon hands me a comb. What follows flips my whole life upsidedown. It sits on a shelf in the farback corner of the shop, as if it were waiting just for me. A strip of light from a fluorescent tube catches it, and it glints with a cold, silvery shine. I freeze, rooted to the spot. It is only a comb, yet unlike any I have ever seen. The handle is smooth, mattemetal, angular, and the teeth are not ordinary teeth. They shimmer with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice where the sun is playing.
I reach for it, but my fingers stop a centimetre away. Inside, a knot of conflict tightens. Why? a stern inner voice asks. You already have a fine, ordinary, workday comb at home. This is a waste of money, a foolish thing. I sigh and pull my hand back, yet I cannot look away. The comb seems alive, hypnotic. I picture it slipping through my wild, ginger strands, and an involuntary smile spreads across my face.
Miss! A lovely comb, take it! a shop assistant bursts out, her smile wide as she steps up to the counter. Weve sold almost all of them, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful, but very practical it wont tangle hair, she assures me.
Im just looking, I mumble, stepping back. I have my own, its fine too. I turn away from the shelf and head for the exit. A small mirror hangs by the door. I glance briefly a tumble of unruly ginger curls peeks out from under my hat. The foolish urge spikes again. No, I tell myself firmly. I must be frugal. Learn to say no to needless things. I step out onto the porch, pressing my face into the cold February wind. The air snaps me out of the strange trance.
Below, on the slick road, a familiar silhouette shuffles toward me: old Paul Turner. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows him by the grim nickname the Grump. His real name is Paul Edward Turner, but the locals only ever call him the Grump. He is a frail old man, his presence so chilly that children give him a wide berth. He never starts conversations; when people stare, his gaze is heavy and scorching, making passersby glance away quickly.
Today he wears his usual garb: a worn rabbitfur coat, a threadbare tweed jacket, scuffed boots. The only thing that doesnt fit his sour image is the shoulder bag slung over him not a battered backpack but an elegant greyfabric satchel, its flap embroidered with an exotic pearllike flower, clearly sewn with love and skill.
I stare at that otherworldly beauty and cant look away. Our eyes meet. In his faded blue eyes a spark of ancient irritation flashes. I snap my gaze to the shop window, pretending to examine something, while my heart thuds in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, cracked voice calls from just behind me. I pretend not to hear. Hey! Im talking to you! the voice repeats, louder. I turn slowly. Paul the Grump, creaking, climbs the steps of the porch, his stare fixed on me.
You live in our block, dont you? he asks, pushing his shaggy, silvered eyebrows up with his nose. The smell of mint and old cloth wafts from him. I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I um kind of, yes, I stammer, feeling foolish.
Kind of, yes does that mean yes or no? he presses, the familiar angry glint returning to his eyes. I simply nod, bracing for an argument. I wonder if Ive displeased him, if I looked the wrong way.
He draws a heavy breath, and his expression softens, the anger melting into a strange, exhausted weariness. Help me pick a little gift, would you? Youre a girl, and I have a granddaughter named Mary. She lives far away, I havent seen her in years. I need something for her, he says in a hushed, almost whispering tone. In the corner of his eyes I think I see not malice but raw, animal desperation.
Maybe you should ask Mary herself what she wants? Even over the phone? I suggest cautiously. I just dont know what shed like
I cant ask her, he snaps, his face turning to stone for a heartbeat. Its how it is. So, will you help? Choose something?
And then it hits me the same comb! The same impossible, beautiful thing, just like the satchel. It would be perfect.
Even though fear still clings, something inside me trembles. I dare to brush his sleeve. Lets go, I say quietly. Ive seen something that might be right. I lead him back into the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his coat under my fingers. He walks silently, leaning heavily on a cane I hadnt noticed before. We stand again at the counter.
Here, I point at the sparkling object. I think this could please a young lady. Paul Edward Turner stretches out a trembling hand, slowly, as if with effort, and lifts the comb. He turns it over in his large, deeplylined, agespotted fingers. He isnt looking at the comb; hes looking through it, as though recalling some distant memory. In that moment he isnt the Grump; he is simply a very tired, very lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistants voice echoes again. Good combs sell out fast. Pauls gaze meets mine, a flicker of something softening in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch toward a smile, and he looks like an ageing pirate who just remembered hidden treasure.
Ill take both, he declares suddenly, his voice steady, and reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a weathered leather wallet. I begin to protest that its too much, but the words stick in my throat. He counts the notes carefully, as if a miser who knows the value of every penny.
The shop assistant wraps the combs in two small packets. Paul places one packet gently into his exotic satchel, handling it as if it were fragile treasure. He opens the second packet, lifts the comb, and hands it to me.
Here, take it. He holds it out like a hot coal.
I recoil, as if the comb might scorch me. No, no, why? Its for your granddaughter I could get one myself if I wanted
Take it, he insists, his hand unwavering, his tone firm. Its a little gift, from me, for you and for Mary. Ill try to send her a parcel, maybe shell accept And you you helped me today. Thank you. His voice carries that same hopeless note he uses when speaking of his granddaughter. I stand speechless, my mouth dry, and take the comb. The plastic feels surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We step out of the shop and walk in silence toward our houses. I clutch the packet tight, as if afraid it might fly away. In my head a question buzzes: Why? Why did he do that? No answer comes.
The silence between us starts tense, then eases. He breathes heavily up the hill, the sound the only break in the quiet street. I steal a glance at his shoulders; normally rigid, now they slump under an invisible weight.
Thank you, I finally manage, unable to stay mute. Its beautiful. Ill use it
He merely nods, not meeting my eyes.
Mary will probably be delighted, I add cautiously.
He slows, sighs heavily, a sound that seems to rise from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be happy, he croaks. I dont know if shell even get it. My daughter Jane she wont let her have anything from me. He falls silent, and we walk a few more steps in a heavy hush.
He blurted out, She blames me for my wifes death. For Oliva His voice cracks, he coughs as if choking. She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor messed up Two precious days lost. I trusted him, I hoped If only I could have taken her to the hospital He wipes his face with his sleeve, and I pretend not to notice his trembling fingers.
My daughter came back after everything happened, but we never spoke again. My granddaughter tried to call, but Jane forbade it. She loved her mother and I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We arrive at his front door. He stops, turns to me, his face twisted in a silent agony that squeezes my stomach. Girl, dont be shy, come in. Ill show you what Oliva made. Everythings as it was. Shall we go? He looks at me with such pleading hope that I cannot refuse.
I nod silently. Fear drains away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his grief. I follow him up the stairs, the warm glass comb still in my pocket, feeling a foreign sorrow seep into me.
He unlocks the heavy iron door, and a stale, timeless air greets me not musty, but as if time itself is paused, with dry herbs, old paper and a faint whiff of bygone perfume. I step inside and freeze. The flat is not merely tidy; it is frozen like a photograph. The floors shine, lace napkins lie immaculate on every surface. A vintage gramophone with a massive horn stands against the wall, next to a neat stack of records. Geraniums bloom on the windowsills, their leaves gleaming as if just polished.
But what strikes me most is the pink, dainty nightdress draped over a chair back, as if its owner just slipped out to change. On the dressing table lie a handful of rings, a short pearl necklace, an open powder box and a dried mascara tube. The whole place feels like a museum, a shrine to memory, stopped five years ago.
Paul removes his coat and hangs it beside the pink dress. He moves toward the kitchen, his motions now slower, almost ritualistic.
Sit, love, Ill get you some tea. Oliva loved tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, his voice from the kitchen is softer, hushed like a library.
I sit carefully on the edge of a chair, afraid to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fall on a small table by the window, where a stack of envelopes tied with twine sits. I lean in; each envelope bears a firm, aged handscript: To my daughter Jane. A stamp across each reads: Return to sender addressee deceased. They have never been opened. The silence of that cruelty hits my heart.
Here, try, Paul returns with a tray of two floral tea cups, a tiny teapot, and a pot of jam. I take a cup. The tea smells of mint and ivy. The jam is surprisingly delightful.
Its wonderful, I say earnestly. Ive never had anything like it. He smiles sadly, looking past me.
Oliva was handy at everything sewing, knitting, gardening. She made bags from scrap cloth. She loved this little satchel with the pearl flower; she told me not to forget it when I went to the shop. He gestures to his bag.
He falls silent, the quiet filling the room with his unspoken sorrow. I finish the jam, and on a sudden impulse I ask, Paul, could you teach me how to make that jam? My mother never gets it right. His eyes brighten as if Id asked something important.
Ill teach you, of course. Its not hard. He begins to tell stories not of grief, but of life: how he and Oliva planted a garden, how she scolded him for bringing too much fabric for her crafts, how they walked into the woods for mushrooms. He speaks, I listen, and the ghost of the Grump dissolves, replaced by a lonely man who kept love for decades, now unsure where to send it.
Leaving, I glance again at the stack of unopened letters. The idea that sparked in the shop solidifies into a firm decision. I have no right to leave it undone.
Ill come back for the recipe? I ask at the door.
Come by, love, always, he replies, his eyes finally warm, not icy. Ill even tell you about zucchini jam its a trick.
I step onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him again in his museum of silence and memory. I descend to my flat, and only then, in the quiet of my own room, allow myself to breathe. I pull the comb from my pocket, lay it on the table. It still sparkles with rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a key a key that opened a door to anothers tragedy.
I sit at the desk, open a notebook and a pen. I cant write the whole letter at once; emotions overflow. I manage the first lines, the most crucial:
Dear Jane, we have never met. My name is Millie, your neighbour. I beg you to read this letter to the end
Outside, night deepens. I write, crossing words out, rewriting, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility and a strange confidence confidence that I am doing the only possible thing.
Three weeks pass. Three weeks of silence. The letter is sent, and no reply comes no call, no note, no angry text. Only the same oppressive quiet that fills Pauls flat.
I visit him often. We share tea with jam, and he, enlivened, tells me new details about his recipes. I pretend great interest, fearing his gaze might read deceit, fearing Ive ruined his daughters hope. Each departure, his stare becomes less wary, more grateful, and the weight on my conscience grows.
One afternoon, returning from university, I see a familiar scene at our landing: the local aunties the neighborhoods aunties gossiping, pointing toward the bench where Paul usually sits. He isnt there, but they continue, unbothered.
no wonder they called him the Grump. He argued with everyone, never made friends. They even say he with his wife
I stand rooted, blood rushing. All the pain Id glimpsed in his life rises in a hot wave. I act without thinking, stepping toward them.
They fall silent, eyes wide with surprised curiosity.
Youre talking about Paul Turner? I ask, my voice louder than usual in the quiet evening.
They nod, bewildered.
Did he argue with you? With your grandchildren, when his wife was dying? I push, Did you hear what he went through? Or did you just gossip?
Their mouths open, then close. Their faces shift from confusion to embarrassment, then a hint of shame. They mutter about young people meddling in others lives and scatter.
I stand alone, breath shallow, knees trembling. The blood in my head throbs. All the sorrow Id felt for this man erupts. I have no idea what will happen next, but I must speak.
A week passes uneventfully. Then Saturday arrives. I sleep, and in a dream a strange noise fills the yard not childrens cries, but adult voices, laughter. I pull back the curtains. Outside, by our block, a dark foreign car is parked. A tall, sleekdressed woman stands beside it, speaking to someone. The door to the landing opens. Paul steps out, no coat this time, just a vest, his face pale and bewildered. He looks at the woman, and something seems to break inside him. He freezes, unable to move.
The woman Jane steps forward, says something I cant hear. From the car a young woman with long blond hair darts out, throws her arms around the old man and clings to his neck.
Granddad! she cries. He grips her tightly, as if fearing she might vanish. His shoulders shake. He cries not the quiet, bitter sobs of the landing, but a loud, raw wail, releasing five years of loneliness. He strokes her hair, whispers something inaudible, his lips forming Martha my girl how youve grown
Jane places a hand on Pauls shoulder, then embraces his daughter. The three stand together, a knot of generations finally unravelling. The dam bursts. Life rushes back.
I step away from the window, not wanting to watch. This is their moment, their healing. A bright feeling blossoms in my chest.
I go to the mirror. My reflection shows a dishevelled face, sleepstained, eyes shining. My ginger hair sticks out in every direction. I take the silver comb from the table, its rainbow teeth still glittering in the morning light. I bring it to my hair, run it slowly through the wild strands. The plastic is cool, but each glide spreads a deep, strange warmth. It isnt the comb itself; the warmth comes from inside, from the heart, warming my whole being.
It feels like the warmth of anothers happiness, now partly my own. The warmth of knowing that the simplest thing a comb, a few words, a letter can become a fragile bridge spanning anyAs I place the glittering comb back on the windowsill, I realize that the quiet ripple of kindness I set in motion has finally stitched together the broken hearts of a whole street, and for the first time in years the world feels gently whole.
