The thermos is old, a battered British enamel model with a swollen glass chamber and a dragonetched pattern that has faded from years of washing. It survived the days of summer tea on the garden terrace when, under the sweltering heat and the scent of jam, the whole neighbourhood of children gathered for a bite of mums cherryfilled pies. Mum always insisted on a thermos because tea stays hotter longer, and the youngsters never minded they came for the pies.
Emma carefully twists off the dented tin lid, feeling the worn threads, and pours tea to the brim of a chipped mug that bears a faded blue spot where the original cobalt once was. The mug, as old as the thermos, and a pewter spoon nicked by a nail that fiveyearold Emma once tried to scrape clean, are the little bridges that link her to the past. Littlefordabout two hundred miles from the old family cottageholds her childhood memories like a photograph in a sealed envelope.
Emma slides the stack of freshly delivered letters to the side of her desk and begins riffling through the envelopes until she finds the right one. The familiar hand writes, To Andrew Vassell, (by hand). The by hand note never means the envelope reaches him directly; first the prison inspector must read the contents, then the sheet is passed on. Emma works as the censor for the prisons correspondence.
The job came to her after a late marriage to Nicholas Bennett, the warden of Houghton Prison, a stern, diligent man who never knows how to occupy a wife who yearns for home. The settlement has only the prison, a small medical outpost and the post office. The school closed, and the wardens children are bused to the nearby town. Nicholas is offered a teaching post and a service car, but his health wont allow the daily jostling over potholes. They have no children of their own. After six months without work, Emma agrees to read the inmates lettersnot school essays, but prison writings. At first she corrects the mistakes out of habit, then learns to ignore them. Reading others words feels intrusive, like peeking through a keyhole, but the monotony dulls any guilt. She hunts for prohibited topics, coded threats, and occasional profanitystill banned in prison mail even as it slips back into popular novels. Some passages she erases, some she forwards to the prison psychologist, others she sends to the security department. The routine shields her from the relentless swirl of thoughts, until one day a strange letter lands on her desk.
That morning, after a quarrel with Nicholas over a missing cup of coffee, Emma wipes the greasy spot from the stove, fills the old thermos to the brim, and, abandoning the car, walks to work. A bleak, snowfree November rolls over the frosthardened ground, leaves rattling like dead birds on the wind. Across the railway, a barren forest broods without a hint of snow. Emma knows shell freeze no matter how she dressesso she carries the thermos.
She nods to the nightshift guard, passes the gate, climbs the echoing stairs to the second floor, unlocks the cold office, and after the first warming sip of tea settles into her throat, she dives into the familiar work. One letter contains a prisoners wife scolding him for hidden cash. Another carries a daughters complaint about a stepfathers stinginess. A third is from a longdistance bride begging her bunny to wait a few more months, oblivious that he already has two other brides in different towns. The letters are filled with inventories of contraband, admonitions from ailing relatives, demands for divorce, announcements of pregnancies, threats, promises, pleas, and plans for a new life after release.
Emma lifts the next envelope with the practiced snap of a knifes edge:
Dear Andy! My son! I love you and am proud of you! writes an unknown mother. Know that you acted like a true man. Your father would have done the same. Were all in fates hands your strength proved fatal for the villain. Had you passed by, perhaps that girl you saved would have died. I pray for you and ask God to forgive your involuntary sin. And you pray, son.
She leans back, surprisedshe has never seen a letter so tender. The return address reads Southwell, not far from Littleford. She reads on, but the tone shifts.
Son, Ive found your notebook and am typing the first chapters. My eyesight is poor and my hands tremble, so the keys get mixed up. Ill manage. You can send me the manuscript in letters its allowed. Ill transcribe slowly. Keep writing, son! The year will pass, life will go on
Emma pauses. Who can forgive every sin, even mortal ones? Only a loving mother, perhaps, and God. She herself has no one left to forgiveher own mother died three years ago, and she has no one to forgive herself. She wipes her dry eyes and dials the prison psychologist.
Dr. Frederick, do you have anything on Vassell from the third wing? she asks.
Give me a moment, comes the click of a keyboard. Nothing beyond the initial interview. Andrew Vassell, born 1970, convicted under section 109, sentenced to a year. He arrived two weeks ago. Something odd about the letters? the voice asks, a hint of concern.
Nothing, just routine, Emma stammers, masking her sudden curiosity. Maybe speak to Mr. Telegrinhis wife left him penniless.
Alright, Ms. Emma Bennett.
From that day Emma begins to anticipate the letters, though they travel only one way. Vassells mother writes about his sister Sonya, sends greetings from acquaintances, and always ends with, Im waiting for you, son. I pray for you. That simple line often brings Emma to tears, which she blames on fatigue and pushes aside with household chores.
The November days drag on without snow. One evening, while sharing dinner, Emma asks her husband, slightly drunk from a full stomach:
Nick, could you go to prison for me?
What, like commit a crime in my honour? he pauses, fork midair. If someone tried to mug you on the street, would you step in?
Who needs you, old man? he pats her shoulder patronisingly. Whats this about a mugger?
If we had a daughter and some thugs attacked her
Not again, Emma! No kids, calm down. Get a cat perhaps?
A cat? she snaps. Im talking about if a man on the 109 would be punished for protecting someone.
We have two inmates like that. And what then?
So noble deeds get you locked up?
Only those whose bravery ends in death get behind bars, by accident. Why are you suddenly interested in the criminal code? Planning a career in law?
Enough, she waves a plate away. But imagine you defended me and accidentally killed someone.
Youre ridiculous, Emma! Dont even think about it. Put the kettle on, he says, flopping onto the sofa and grabbing the TV remote. And brew it in a proper teapot, not that ancient thermos!
By late winter the ground is dusted with a thin, foamlike frost. On Emmas kitchen table lies a reply from Vassells mother. She slices the envelope and cuts her finger.
Mother, hello, the prisoner writes. Sorry for the long silenceI couldnt gather my thoughts. Youre right: a year will pass and life will go onwhat will it be like? If anyone needs my letters, its only you and me. Sonya wont read them. Dont force her to write; it burdens her as much as it does me. Dont strain your eyes on the computer. Just stash the letters in the box; Ill sort them when Im back. Im sending two chapters; I cant send morethe envelope weight limit is strict. Its hard to write here
Inside the envelope are a stack of thin, almost translucent sheets, scribbled densely. Should she check them according to protocol? She hesitates, hides the stack back in the envelope, and slips it into her bag, hoping a days delay goes unnoticed. Thus Vassell gains his first secret reader.
Night after night, amid the howling winter wind, Emma locks herself in the cramped kitchen under a checkered lampshade. The thermos of tea sits beside her, a handy excuse if Nicholas appears with a sore throat. Her throat indeed aches, but her soul aches more, stirred by the strangers notes.
Vassells manuscript grips Emma. He tells his life story, including the incident that landed him behind bars. The protagonist, Peter Vasily Anderson, mirrors Vassells own details, making the narrative feel autobiographical. The description of the prisons surroundings is vivid, as if the author walks alongside Emma past the railway, through the barren woods and the scattered signal boxes. When Peter recalls his childhood, Emma thinks of her own garden holidays, her mother, tea on the veranda, and the pies. Their perspectives align, their eyes see the same world, its flaws both bitter and sweet. The language is clear, the prose unblemished, and Emma forgets shes reading a prisoners letters; the handwritten sheets return her to reality. She notices a red pen scar on her fingertip from years of marking school essays, a reminder of her past as a teacher.
Can one return to the past? Peter asks, measuring the narrow space between the barred window and the cell door. A foolish questionshould we even think about it? Ruminate over mistakes? Blame ourselves for what cant be changed?
Emma pauses, pondering with him. If nothing can be changed, where does the relentless yearning come from? Why do we cling to relics of the past, tearing our hearts as we hold onto reminders of fleeting existence? She glances at the thermos, the faded mug, the cooling tea.
She folds the pages back into the envelope, returns the letter to the pile of screened correspondence, and waits for the next batch. Weeks turn into months. Winter fades, and the first signs of springdripping icicles on the prison wallsappear both in Vassells manuscript and in real life. The story branches like a young apple tree, and a new heroine emerges.
She comes home exhausted, throws her coat in the hall, slides cold feet into slippers. The house is empty, as is her soul
Nicholas, are you home? he calls, breaking the silence.
Yes.
Whats wrong with you? Youve seemed off lately, he says, chewing a bacon sandwich. Fine, warm up dinner.
Ive felt unlike myself for years, Emma whispers, but Nicholas has already left the room. A football match blares from the living room.
On April twentieth, the anniversary of her mothers death, Emma spends the morning at the parish church and then at the market. Her driver, Victor, takes her back toward the village. Middrive, a phone rings; Victor glances at the dashboard, recalling a task Nicholas left him. They turn back to collect a heavy parcel of prison letters from the post office. Emmas heart tightenshave they discovered her secret?
Vassells letters now arrive twice a week. The narrative swells toward its climax. One day Emma leaves a stack of pages on the kitchen table; Nicholas spots them. How will she explain?
But Emma worries less about Nicholas and more about a simple, almost childish sensation. As she and Victor unload groceries, a whiff of lily-of-thevalley brushes her cheek. The slippers are turned the wrong way, the bathroom door ajar, a towel on the floor. Nicholas emerges, freshshaven, tying his civilian tie.
Theyve called me to the Sexton case, he says, pausing at the doorway. Well be off soon.
Youre always buzzing about work, like a bee, he chuckles, planting a kiss on her cheek. Whats the celebration? he asks, hefting the bag.
My mothers fourth anniversary, Emma mutters, the words catching on the edge of the doorway.
Right, later, he replies, heading to the kitchen.
She slips into the bedroom, pulls open the tall chest of drawers, and finds a glittering hairpin tangled with a thin chestnut thread.
It all feels inevitableglances exchanged among guards, sideways looks at the letters, and Emma, stubborn as always, pretends not to notice, believing herself above prison gossip. She feels no bitterness toward Nicholas, no jealousy, no lingering loveonly a practical urge to escape. She wonders why she clung to marriage, to the hope of children, to the distance of thousands of miles that justified her absence, to the guilt over the mother she visited just before she died. All those justifications crumble like cardboard. Now nothing holds her here.
On the day the amnesty is announced, a board at the prison lists the names of those to be freed. Emma spots Andrew Vassell among them. His sentence is cut by a third, with a release date set for 11 June. In a few weeks her story will end. She feels the conclusion drawing near.
She returns home with fresh chapters tucked in an envelope, walks through the dimly lit flat she has inhabited for nine years, and sees familiar shadows on the wallschairs, glasses on the sideboard, lowset furniture that feels like a set piece from another life. She opens the wardrobe, but the evening light already stains the room in muted hues. Clothes hang like a somber sarcophagus, shoulders slumped under the weight of memories. She shuts the door, heads to the kitchen, and prepares dinner, determined to finish Vassells manuscript before he leaves.
The final letter arrives the day before his release.
Mother, hello! Amnestys been announced; in three days Ill be home. Ill probably get this letter myself, so dont wait for me Emma doesnt finish reading. She tucks the letter and the last chapters into her bag.
Time is short. She has already packed a suitcase under the bedjust a few clothes, a couple of books, the thermos and mug. A ticket to Littleford rests in her purse alongside documents and her May pay slip. She plans to leave a note for Nicholas, a calm explanation, and a resignation letterno drama. She must survive the night without being discovered. Nicholas wont be home; a late text says hes been called away on urgent business to Exeter. Her fate is sealed.
All that remains is to finish the manuscript. Her trembling hands unfold the pages, only to find blank sheets. She flips back to Vassells mothers letter, finds nothing new. Then a small note slips out:
Hello, dear reader! I understand your confusion when the ending is a clean sheet and no dots sit over the is. But you can place those dots yourself. There wont be an epilogue. Tomorrow, a single day, can change everything that follows. Can we travel back in time? No. Can we return to the present? Yesif its worth living, without cardboard shields, without familiar cold and empty fantasies
Emma doesnt close her eyes all night. At dawn she removes her ring, folds the note for Nicholas, and, pretending the door is closed, steps into her own present.
At the same moment, a nondescript man in a dark coat leaves the prison gates, slings a rucksack over his shoulder, and heads for the nearest bus stop. On the platform Emma spots a blue post box, its paint peeling, spider webs in the slot. She drops the freedfromblankpages letter inside. A strange bald man watches from a distance.
Andrew Vassell andShe walks away, the cold morning air filling her lungs, knowing at last she has reclaimed the present she once thought lost.
