The dream began with a phone call.
No, Mr. Thompson, I cant have it done by morning! Its impossible! My team works eight-hour days, not twenty-four!
Emily paced her tiny kitchen, pressing the phone so hard against her ear it might have fused with her skull. On the other end, her boss rumbled with displeasure.
Emily, I dont care about excuses. The project is due. Motivate them. Pay overtime. This is your responsibility. If we fail tomorrow
We wont fail, she hissed through clenched teeth. Itll be done.
She stabbed the end call button and hurled her phone onto the sofa. Her hands trembledanger, exhaustion, the usual cocktail. Five years of this. Five years of deadlines, presentations, panic. She was a successful project manager, well-paid, respected. And utterly hollow.
Her eyes landed on a dusty frame on the shelf. A kind-eyed woman with silver hair smiled back. Gran. Margaret. A sudden, desperate longing crashed over herto be back in that quiet cottage, far from Londons endless grind.
The decision came like lightning. She snatched up her phone.
Gran? Hi, its me. Im fine, just missed you. Can I come stay for a while? Tomorrow, yes. Ill take leave. This citys choking me.
An hour later, the unpaid leave request was submitted, the train ticket booked. For the first time in years, silence settled in her mind. Shed finish the project tonight, wreck herself and her team doing it. But by morning, shed be gone.
The train rolled south, lulling her with the rhythm of wheels on tracks. Fields, copses, sleepy stations blurred past the window. With each mile, the tension in her shoulders loosened.
The village met her with warm wind, the scent of cut grass, and the neighbours spaniel barking madly. Gransmall, wiry, still strongcrushed her in a hug that stole her breath.
There you are, my city sparrow, she muttered, but her eyes sparkled. Skin and bones. Come in, Ive made soup. With nettles.
The house smelled of childhood: baking, dried lavender, something indefinably safe. Emily dropped her bag, collapsed onto the carved wooden bed in her old room, and closed her eyes. Real silence. Just bees humming outside, the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. Heaven.
The first days melted away. She slept, ate Grans scones, wandered the lanes greeting old-timers who still remembered her as a scrap of a girl. She weeded the garden, watered the runner beans. Simple work under open skiesbetter than any therapist.
Emily, Gran said one evening over mint tea. Help me clear the shed. Fifty years of clutter in there. Best sort it before I kick the bucket.
Gran, dont say that.
Just practical. Tomorrow, then.
The shed leaned like a tired old man, sunk into the earth. Inside, dust motes swirled in shafts of light, illuminating rusted tools, broken flowerpots, stacks of yellowed newspapers.
Christ, Gran, thisll take a week, Emily sighed.
Eyes bigger than your belly, Gran said, handing her gloves. Start at the back.
They worked for hours. Out came mildewed crates, a pram with a broken wheel, a chipped washbasin. Emily sneezed constantly but felt oddly soothed, as if cleaning more than just the shed.
Behind a stack of rotted timber, she found ita wooden chest with an iron latch. Unlocked.
Gran, whats this?
Gran peered over. Oh. Forgot about that. Your grandads. William made it when he was young. After he passed, I couldnt face it.
Grandad William was a hazy memorya tall, quiet man with warm hands. Gran rarely spoke of him, and when she did, it was with quiet sorrow.
Shall we look? Emily asked.
Gran nodded.
The hinges groaned. Inside lay bundles of papers tied with ribbon, hardback journals, a small inlaid box. Emily lifted a journal. Faded ink on the cover read: DIARY.
He kept diaries?
Dunno, Gran shrugged. Private man. Wrote in the evenings. Thought it was accounts
Emily flipped it open. Neat script filled the pagesnot dry records, but poetry.
*Your eyestwo forest pools so deep,*
*my soul slips under, soft and slow.*
*The world holds breath when you are near,*
*your touch as light as sparrows wing*
Emily gaped. Gran he wrote poetry. Beautiful poetry.
Gran took the book, adjusted her glasses, read silently. No surprise on her face. Just that same old sadness.
Aye. Wrote them. Not for me, though.
Not for you?
Take it inside. Read if you like. Ive goats to milk.
And she left Emily standing there, bewildered.
That night, Emily devoured the journals. This wasnt the stern, silent man shed heard about. Here, he was passionate, tender, aching. He wrote of love, stars, the meaning of life. And on every other pagea name. *Rose.*
*Saw Rose at the well today. Her laughlike sunlight on water. Why am I such a coward? Why cant I just say hello?*
*Rose leaves for university. The village will be grey without her. I should have spoken. Should have*
*No reply to my last letter. Shes found her life there, no doubt. And I remain here, with my unsaid words, my poems no one will read.*
Emilys throat tightened. A love storyunrequited. Her grandad had loved another woman. So how did Gran fit in?
Next afternoon, over tea, she dared to ask.
Gran tell me about Grandad. When you met.
Gran gazed at the apple trees. Just a lad back from the army. Hard worker, quiet. Id just left school. He barely noticed me at first. Walked around like a ghost.
Was he in love?
Gran gave her a long look. Read about Rose, did you?
Emily nodded.
Knew youd dig it up. Rose Whitakerlocal doctors daughter. Pretty as a picture. All the lads were sweet on her. Your grandad worst of all. Too shy, though. Just wrote his poems. She never saw him. Went off to uni, married some professor.
But you how did you marry?
Gran chuckled. Same as anyone here. Parents arranged it. Good matchhe was steady, I was respectable. Love grows, they say. He never loved me. But he was kind. Good father. Never a cross word. Thirty years we had. Built this house. Raised your mum. And never once spoke of Rose. Though sometimes Id see him on the porch at dusk, writing in that book, staring at the road to town. Like he was waiting.
The silence that followed held lifetimes.
Gran werent you angry?
Angry? Gran sighed. At first. Young and daft. Thought if I baked enough, mended his shirts, hed love me. Then I understoodhearts dont work that way. He was a good man. Steady as an oak. Isnt that enough for a life? Loves like lightningbright, loud, gone quick. Respect, habit they last. We had peace.
Emily saw her thennot just a country widow, but a woman of quiet, immense strength.
Days passed. Emily kept sorting the chest. Among the journals were lettersthree from Rose. Polite, distant. She thanked him for the poems (very sweet), wrote of her exciting studies, asked him not to write again after her engagement.
The inlaid box held the final blowa faded photograph of a serious-eyed girl with an updo. On the back, Grandads handwriting: *Rose. Forever.* Beside it, a pressed bluebell.
Now Emily understood why Gran had left the chest untouched. It wasnt junk. It was a shrine.
One evening, she asked, Gran what happened to Rose?
Lived in the next town over. Widowed fifteen years back. Worked at the hospital till retirement. No children.
Emilys pulse jumped. Shes alive? Nearby?
Grans eyes twinkled. Fancy meeting her?
It was madness. What would she say? But something insistedthis circle needed closing.
Would you come with me?
Gran studied her, then smiledreally smiled. Aye. Lets go.
Next morning, they boarded the bus. Emilys stomach churned. Gran sat serene, watching the hedgerows flash by.
They found the housea neat cottage with roses out front. The door opened to a tall, straight-backed woman with the same grave eyes as in the photo.
Yes?
Emily froze. But Gran stepped forward.
Hello, Rose. Its Margaret. Williams wife.
Rose went pale. Oh. Come in.
They sat at her kitchen table. Roses hands shook as she poured tea.
William hes been gone a long time, she whispered.
He has, Gran said. My granddaughter found his poems. The ones he wrote you.
Roses eyes filled. I was such a fool. Young, vain. Thought life was grander things. His letters they seemed quaint then. Later, I understood. They were the truest thing I ever had. I kept them all.
She fetched a ribbon-tied bundle. I read them especially after my husband died. Regretted so much
Three women sat in silence. Two old ladies whose lives had orbited one man. One young woman understanding, for the first time, the weight of love and time. No recriminations. Just shared sorrow for what might have been.
On the bus home, Emily held Grans hand. She looked peaceful, as if a stone had lifted from her heart.
Back at the cottage, Emily placed Roses letters beside Grandads journals. The story was complete now.
Her holiday was ending. Londonthe deadlines, the panicloomed. But the thought no longer terrified her. Something had shifted. Grandads story, Grans wisdom, meeting Rose it had rearranged her world. Her successful, frantic life suddenly seemed empty.
On her last evening, they sat on the porch.
Gran thank you.
What for?
For letting me see this. I think I understand something now.
She took out her phone, dialled her boss.
Mr. Thompson? I wont be in on Monday. No, Im resigning. No, I wont reconsider. Goodbye.
She hung up, breathed deep. No fear. Just certainty.
So what now, sparrow? Gran asked, though her tone held no judgement.
Dunno, Emily admitted. Might stay the summer. Help you. Then figure it out. Maybe write. Not poetry, but stories. Like yours and Grandads.
She watched the sunset paint the sky peach. Londonits false urgency, its hollow goalsfelt like a fading dream. Here, in the quiet, the lavender scent, the calm of a wise old womans gaze, she was home. Truly.
