The thermos is old, a battered British model with a dented glass jug and a dragonetched design worn smooth by years of washing. It survived from the days of weekend tea parties at the cottage when the garden verandah, heavy with the heat of summer and the scent of jam, gathers all the local children who have heard stories of mothers cherry pies. Mother prefers a thermos to a teapot because she believes tea brews stronger and stays hot longer. The kids dont mindthey come for the pies.
Emily carefully unscrews the crumpled tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and pours tea into a mug that bears a faint blue spot where a forgetmenot once grew. The mug, as old as the thermos, and the pewter spoon, nicked by a nail Emily used at five to clean stubborn tea stains, are the relics from the house in Littleton that form for her a bridge to the past. Littleton lies about two hundred miles away, and her childhood feels three decades behind her.
Emily slides a box of fresh letters, delivered by the nightshift clerk, onto the table and begins riffling through the envelopes until she finds the right one. A familiar hand writes: To Andrei Petrovich Vasilyev, (personal delivery). But personal delivery never happensfirst the prison inspector must read the contents, then the sheet reaches the intended hands. Emily works as a prison censurer.
She took up this rare job after a late marriage. Her husband, Nicholas Blackwell, is the prison governor: a serious, solid man who never knows how to occupy his wifes longing for home. In the small town of Ashford the only public places are the clinic and the post office; the school closed, and staff children travel to the district centre by bus. The authorities offer Emily a teaching post and a service car, but her health cant endure daily bumpy rides. The Blackwells have no children of their own. After six months of unemployment, Emily agrees to read compositionsnot school essays but inmates letters. At first she corrects mistakes out of habit, then learns to ignore them. Reading other peoples letters feels invasive, as if peering through a keyhole, but the monotony dulls any guilt. She hunts for forbidden topics, coded criminal schemes, and occasional profanity (the prison bans swearing in correspondence, just as literary circles have begun to allow it). She redacts some parts, forwards suspicious bits to the psychological unit, and passes others to the operations department. The work has become routine, a distraction from the whirl of persistent thoughts. Then, one morning, a strange letter lands on her desk.
That morning, after a quarrel with Nicholas over a spilled cup of coffee, she wipes the greasy patch from the stove, fills the thermos to the brim, and decides to walk to work, leaving the car behind.
A bleak, snowfree November rolls across the cold ground, scattering dry leaves that shiver hopelessly in the wind. Beyond the railway, a barren, leafless forest looms. Everything feels frozen. Emily knows that no matter how she dresses, shell still feel the chillso she keeps the thermos close.
She nods to the nightshift clerk, passes the gate, climbs the echoing stairwell to the second floor, unlocks the office that has been cooling all night, and after a first warming sip of tea she dives into her usual routine. One letter contains a prisoners wife scolding her husband for hidden money. Another has a daughter accusing her stepfather of greed. A third features a proxy bride begging her bunny to wait a few more months, unaware that the bunny already has two other brides in different towns. The prison mail is filled with lists of contraband sent in parcels, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce and quick remarriage, pregnancy notices, threats, promises, pleas, and plans for a new life after release.
Finishing a cup, Emily uses a practiced, knifesharp motion to slit the next envelope:
Dear Andy! My son! I love you and am proud of you! writes an unknown mother. Know that you acted like a real man. Your father would have done the same. We are all in fates handsyour strength proved fatal to the villain. Had you passed by, the girl you saved might have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
Emily leans back in her chairshe has never seen a letter like this before. The return address reads Belfast, not far from Littleton. She reads on, but the tone changes.
Son, I found your notebook and am typing the first chapters onto the computer. Its slowmy eyesight is poor and my hands are unsteady. I keep mixing up the keys. Ill manage. You can keep sending me handwritten pages; thats allowed. Ill retype them slowly. Dont stop writing, son. This year will pass, life will go on
Emily folds the letter. Who can forgive all sins, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother and God. No one left to forgive her nowher own mother died three years ago, and theres no one left for her to forgive.
She wipes the dry eyes and dials the prison psychologist.
Dr. Fenton, do you have a file on Vasilyev from Block Three?
One moment, let me check, a click of keyboards sounds. Nothing else, just an initial interview. Andrei Petrovich Vasilyev, born 1970, convicted under Article 109, sentenced to one year. He arrived two weeks ago. Anything odd in the letters?
No, everything looks fine, Emily stammers, unsure how to mask her sudden interest. Maybe talk to Telkin, he left his wife without money.
Alright, Lydia Blackwell.
From that day Emily begins to await letters. The envelopes only travel one way. Vasilyevs mother writes to her son about her grownup daughter Sonja, sends greetings from acquaintances, and shares simple oldpeople news, always ending with, Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. The line often brings tears to Emilys eyes. She blames fatigue and nerves, drowns the sentimentality with household chores.
The last days of November drag on, still without snow. One evening at dinner Emily asks her slightly tipsy husband:
Nick, could you go to prison for me?
What do you mean? Commit a crime on my behalf?
Not on purpose. Suppose someone attacked me on the streetwould you step in?
Who do you think you are, dear? he pats her shoulder patronisingly. And what if a gang menaced a daughter of ours?
Again with the same question! he snaps. We have no children, so what? Get a cat?
What does a cat have to do with it? she snaps. Im asking about a man convicted under Article109.
We have two inmates like that. So?
Does noble behaviour get punished? Is it dangerous to protect the weak?
Only those whose bravery ends in death end up in prison, by mistake. he says, raising a finger. Why are you suddenly interested in the criminal code? Planning a legal career?
Enough, she waves off plates. But imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre foolish, Emily! I wont even imagine it. Go make tea, he grunts, flopping on the sofa, grabbing the remote. And stop using that ancient thermos!
By late winter a thin, foamlike snow finally drifts onto the frosty ground. A reply from Vasilyevs mother lands on Emilys desk. She cuts the envelope, cutting her finger.
Mum, hello, the prisoner writes. Sorry for the long silenceI couldnt gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go onwhat kind of life? If anyone needs my writing, its just you and me, to pass the time. Sonja wont read it anyway. Dont force her to write to me; it burdens her, and it burdens me. Dont strain your eyes on the computerjust stack the letters in the box, Ill sort them when Im released. Im sending two chapters; I cant send morethe envelope weight is limited. I cant even write properly here
A stack of thin, almost translucent pages is tucked inside. Emily wonders whether she must check them according to protocol, but she hides them back in the envelope, stuffs it into her bag, and hopes no one notices a delayed day. Thus the prisoner gains a secret reader.
She reads late into the night, the winter wind howling outside her cramped kitchen with its checkered lampshade. The thermos sits on the table, a convenient excuse for a sore throat whenever Nicholas drops by. Her throat truly hurts, but her soul aches more, stirred by the strangers notes.
Vasilyevs manuscript grips Emily. He describes his life, including the incident that landed him in prison. The protagonist, Peter Vasilyev Andrenko, is a thinly veiled version of himself. The narratives rhythm, the vivid nature descriptions, feel as if the author walks beside Emily along the railway, past the forest and the scattered signal huts. When Peter recalls his childhood, Emily remembers her own cottage holidays, her mothers tea on the verandah, the pies They see the world with the same eyes, admire it with a bittersweet acceptance of its flaws. The prose is clear and clean; Emily occasionally forgets she is reading a prisoners letters, and the handwritten sheets, not bound books, pull her back to reality. No mistakes appear; the red pen she holds hovers over each line out of habit. She notices a ridge on her middle finger, a reminder of her schooldays and later teaching years.
Can we return to the past? Peter asks, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and his cell door. A foolish question! Should we even think about it, chew over mistakes, blame ourselves for things we cant change? Emily puts the page aside, pondering with him. If nothing can be changed, where does that lingering sorrow come from? Why do we cling to objects from the past, tearing our hearts, keeping reminders of lifes fleeting and irreversible nature? she muses, glancing at the faded mug and cooling tea.
She piles the pages back into the envelope, and the next morning returns the letter to the stack of screened correspondence, waiting for the next batch. Weeks pass. Winter yields to spring; icicles hang like mournful beards on the prison walls, first in Vasilyevs manuscript, then in reality. The story buds with new characters, branching like a young apple tree. One chapter introduces a new heroine:
She comes home exhausted, throws her coat in the hallway, slides her frozen feet into slippers. The house is empty, as is her soul
Natalie, are you home? Nicholas calls, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong? Youve seemed off lately, he says, chewing a ham sandwich. Alright, finish dinner.
Ive not felt myself for years, she replies quietly, and he walks away. The roar of a football match leaks from the next room.
On 20April, the anniversary of her mothers death, Emily spends the morning in the district centrefirst at church, then at the market. Her personal driver, Victor, takes her back towards the village. Midjourney his phone rings; he remembers a task from Nicholas and they turn back to collect a heavy bundle of prison letters from the post office. Emily feels a cold knot in her stomachhas someone discovered her secret?
Vasilyevs letters now arrive twice a week. The narrative swells toward its climax. One day Emily leaves a stack of pages on the kitchen table. Nicholas spots them. How will she explain? But she worries less about that. The true panic comes when she and Victor bring groceries inside and a faint scent of lilies brushes her cheek. Her slippers are turned the wrong way, the bathroom door is ajar, a towel lies on the floor. Nicholas emerges, freshshaven, slipping on his tie.
Blackwells been called to the council, he says to the driver. Well be off soon.
Youre always buzzing about work, like a bee, he coos, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. What are we celebrating?
My mothers fouryear death anniversary, Emily whispers, voice caught in the doorway.
Right, later then, he says, hefting the bag. The front door clicks shut. She feels her hand brush the wall, walks into the bedrooma wide, satincovered bed that could hold two strangers who no longer touch. She pulls the top drawer of the nightstand; among mens trinkets lies a shiny hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
It becomes clear: the whispers, the sideways glances of the nightshift staff, the subtle hintsEmily Blackwell has ignored them, convinced herself she is above prison gossip, or perhaps she simply refuses to see. She feels no burning resentment toward her husband, no jealousy, no bitterness. Thinking of infidelity feels both repulsive and oddly relievingat least now she has a legitimate reason to leave. But where to go?
Where now? she wonders, standing by the window. No one waits at home, yet the house, though far, still calls. Here is just a temporary lodging for the displaced, a prison in all but name. She questions why she clung all these years to the role of a married woman in her forties, to the blind hope of children that never came, to the distance of thousands of miles that justified her absence, to the guilt toward a mother she visited only a day before she died, unintentionally causing her harm. All those shields turn out as flimsy as cardboard. Now nothing holds her here.
On the day the amnesty is announced, a board in the prison lobby displays the list of those to be released. Emily, scanning the list, spots Andrei P. Vasilyev. His sentence is cut by a third, with a release date set for 11June. In a few weeks the story will end. She feels the resolution drawing near.
She returns home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, walks through the dimly lit flat she has inhabited for nine years without turning on the lights. The weak twilight casts tired shadows on the room, now looking like a stage set for a strangers life. Everything remains foreignthe quiet armchairs, the crystal glasses on the sideboard, the low, floorbuilt furniture.
She throws open the wardrobe, but the evening has already stained the colorsclothes lie in a drab, funerallike shroud, shoulders hunched under the weight of memories. She slams the door shut and heads to the kitchen to cook dinner. She will not leave until she finishes Vasilyevs manuscript.
The final letter arrives a day before the release.
Mum, hello! Amnesty has been announced; in three days Ill be home. Ill probably get this letter myself, so no need to wait for me Emily does not finish reading. She grabs the last chapters and heads home.
Time is short. She packed a suitcase yesterday and hid it under the bedonly a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and mug. The train ticket back to Littleton lies in her bag along with her May payslip. She plans to leave a note for Nicholaseasier that wayand will hand him the resignation letter herself. She needs to survive tonight without being discovered. Nicholas doesnt return home, sending a late text about an urgent business trip to Bristol. Emilys fate seems sealed.
All that remains is to finish the manuscript. With trembling hands she opens the pages, only to find blank sheetspure white, perfectly folded to fit the envelope. She flips back to Vasilyevs letter to his mother, finds nothing of interest, then spots a slipped note:
Hello, dear reader!
I understand your confusion when the ending is just blank pages and no dots over the is. But you can place those dots yourself, cant you? There wont be an epilogue. Tomorrow may be just one day, but it can change everything that follows. Can we go back to the past? No. We can return to the presentif its worth living, without cardboard shields, without the usual cold and empty illusions
Emily does not close her eyes the whole night. At dawn she removes her wedding ring, pins the note to Nicholas with a key, pretends the door is shut, and steps into her own present.
At the same moment a nondescript man in a dark coat, out of season, steps out of the prison gates, slings a backpack over his shoulder, and walks toward the nearest bus stop.
On the platform Emily spots a crudely painted blue postbox, spiderwebs in the slot, and drops the nowclean letter inside. A strange bald man watches from a distance.
Vasilyev and Emily board the same train, ten miles apart, each in an empty carriage. They travel home, free, into the present.
