The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what happened next turned my whole life upside down.
It sat on a highstreet shelf in the farback corner of the shop, as if it had been waiting for me. A beam from the fluorescent ceiling caught it, and it flared with a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, rooted to the floor. It was just a comb, but unlike any Id ever seen. The handle was a smooth, mattemetal bar, perfectly cut, while the teeth werent ordinary at all. They shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice that held the suns fire inside.
I reached out, but my fingers stopped a breath away. Inside, a knot of contradiction tightened. Why? a harsh voice inside me demanded. You already have a perfectly ordinary, practical comb at home. Its a waste of money. Foolishness.
I sighed and pulled my hand back, though I could not tear my eyes away. The comb seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it gliding through my unruly auburn strands, and a reluctant smile tugged at my lips.
Miss! A fine comb, take it! the shop assistant called, her grin spreading across her face.
Everyones bought them out already, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful, but they glide through hair without a snag, she assured me.
I was just looking, I murmured, stepping back. I have my own, its fine.
I turned away from the shelf and headed for the door. A small mirror hung by the exit; I caught a glimpse of my tangled copper curls poking out from beneath my hat. The foolish yearning surged again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be frugal. Learn to say no to needless things.
I stepped onto the doorstep, feeling the chill February wind bite my cheeks. The cold air snapped me out of the daydream. Down the slick cobblestones, a familiar figure shuffled toward meAlbert Bert Grim.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew him simply as The Grim. His real name was Albert Whitaker, but the nickname stuck, because his presence was as frostbitten as his stare, sending children scurrying. He never struck up conversation; his gaze was heavy enough to make anyone look away quickly.
He was dressed in his usual attire: a threadbare rabbitfur coat, a faded overcoat, worn leather boots. The only thing that didnt fit his sour image was the satchel slung over his shoulder. It wasnt a battered knapsack but a sleek, greyfabric bag, its flap embroidered with an odd, motherofpearl flower, clearly sewn with care and skill.
I stared at the exquisite bag, unable to look away. Our eyes met. A flash of ancient, lingering irritation flickered in his bluegrey eyes. I forced my gaze back to the display case, pretending to examine something, while my heart hammered deep in my throat.
A hoarse, cracked voice sounded close by. Hey! You up there! I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! the voice grew louder.
I turned slowly. Bert Grim, his back creaking, climbed the steps of the porch, staring straight at me.
Youre from the same block, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, silverstreaked eyebrows up onto his nose. The scent of mint and old wool clung to him.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I uh yes, I suppose, I stammered, feeling like a complete fool.
Supposedoes that mean yes or no? he snapped, his eyes flashing that familiar dangerous glint.
I only nodded silently, bracing for a confrontation.
His breathing grew heavy, then his expression softened, anger melting into a weary, lost fatigue.
Help me pick a present, then, will you? Youre a girl, and Ive got a granddaughter named Molly. She lives far away, I havent seen her in years. His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, as though he were fearing the very walls might hear.
A flicker of something like animal desperation passed through his eyes.
Perhaps you should ask Molly herself what she wants? Even by phone? I offered cautiously. I just dont know what would please her
I cant ask her, he snapped, his face hardening again for a breath. Its happened that way. Will you help? Choose something?
And then it hit me the same impossiblelooking comb, as otherworldly and beautiful as that embroidered bag. It would be perfect.
Although fear still clung to me, a tiny tremor of courage stirred. I dared to touch the sleeve of his coat.
Lets go, I said quietly. I saw something. I think its what she needs.
We walked back into the shop, my fingers feeling the rough fabric of his coat. He leaned on a wooden cane I had never noticed before. We stopped again at the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think shed like this.
Bert Whitaker extended a trembling hand, grasped the comb, and turned it over his thick, wrinkled fingers, marked with age spots. He didnt look at the comb but through it, as if searching a distant memory. In that instant he was no longer The Grim; he was simply a tired, lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistants voice echoed, good combs sell fast.
Berts gaze lifted to me, something softening in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched, a smile of a pirate who suddenly remembered hidden treasure.
Ill take both, he said, his voice steady, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat for a battered leather wallet.
I wanted to protest it was too much, but the words stuck in my throat. He counted the notes with the meticulous care of someone who knows the worth of every penny.
The shop assistant wrapped the combs in two small paper bags. One she handed to him, and he placed it carefully into his embroidered satchel, as if cradling something fragile and priceless. The second she slipped into my hand.
Here, take it.
I recoiled as if he had offered a live coal.
What? No, you dont need it for for your granddaughter? I could manage myself
Take it, he pressed, his stare now firm, almost stern. A little gift, from me. For you and for Molly. Ill try to send it to her, maybe shell accept And thank you for helping me today.
His voice carried the same hopeless note hed used when speaking of his granddaughter. I took the comb, its plastic surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked silently toward our block. I clutched the bag as if it might float away. My mind kept asking, Why? Why did he do that? No answer came.
The silence between us was tense at first, then gradually softened. His breath came heavy as we climbed the hill, the only sound breaking the quiet street. I stole a glance at his shouldersnormally rigid, now slumped under an invisible weight.
Thank you, I managed at last, the words tumbling out. Its lovely. Ill use it.
He only nodded, not meeting my eyes.
Molly will be pleased, I guess, I added cautiously.
He slowed his step, a deep sigh escaping him, as if it rose from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be pleased, he rasped. My daughter, Jane she wont give it to her. She wont want anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in oppressive quiet.
She blames me, he burst out suddenly, as if a dam had broken. Blames me for not protecting her mother Olena.
His voice cracked, a cough masking a sob.
She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor made a mistake two precious days lost. I trusted him If only Id taken her to the hospital myself!
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice the tremor of his fingers.
My daughter only came back after everything had happened. Its been five years. We never spoke again. Molly tried to call, but Jane shut her out. She loved her mother and I loved them both. My life ended that day.
We reached the entrance of our building. He stopped, turned toward me, his face twisted in wordless agony that made my chest tighten.
Grace, dont turn away. Come inside. Ill show you what Olena used to make. Everythings as it was. Shall we? His plea held a desperate hope, a begging for human compassion I could not refuse.
I nodded silently. Fear melted away, replaced by a bitter understanding of his sorrow. I followed him up the stairs, the comb still warm in my pocket, feeling anothers grief become a part of me.
He pushed open the heavy iron door, and a stale, motionless air met menot musty, but frozen in time, scented with dried herbs, old paper, and a faint trace of perfume that barely lingered.
Inside, the flat was not merely tidy; it was a snapshot frozen in amber. The floors shone, lace doilies lay perfectly on every surface. A vintage gramophone stood on the mantel, its horn gleaming, beside a neat stack of records. Geraniums lined the windowsill, their leaves glossy as if just polished.
The most striking detail was a pink, flowerpatterned nightdress draped over the back of an armchair, as if the owner had just slipped it off. On the vanity sat a small pile of rings, a strand of pearls, an open powder box, and a dried mascara tube.
It was a museum of memory, a shrine to a day five years past.
Albert slipped off his coat and hung it beside the nightdress. He moved toward the kitchen, his motions smoother, almost ritualistic.
Sit, Grace, Ill put the kettle on. Olena loved tea with jam. We have our own cherry preserve, he said, his voice softer, as if speaking in a library.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, careful not to disturb the fragile harmony of the room. My eyes fell on a stack of envelopes tied with twine on a small table by the window. I leaned in; each bore his shaky, aged handwriting: To my daughter Jane. All were stamped Return to sender addressee deceased. They hadnt even been opened. My heart sank at that silent cruelty.
Here, try, Albert returned, carrying a tray with two dainty teacups, a tiny floral teapot, and a jar of jam.
I lifted a cup. The tea smelled of mint and sweet wood. The jam was, indeed, extraordinary.
Its wonderful, I said honestly. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He gave a sad smile, looking past me.
She was a jackofalltrades. Sewed, knitted, kept the garden blooming. Made bags like this one from scraps. I kept this one, the one with the pearl flower, because she told me not to forget it when I went to the shop. He gestured to his satchel.
Silence settled again, heavy with his unspoken grief. I finished the jam, and, driven by a sudden impulse, asked,
Albert, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant get it right.
His eyes brightened as if Id said something vital.
Ill show you, of course. It isnt hard.
He began to speak of planting potatoes, of Olenas scolding when he brought too much cloth for her projects, of gathering mushrooms in the woods. He talked, I listened, and the phantom of the curmudgeon dissolved, replaced by an ordinary, lonely old man who had guarded love for decades.
Leaving, I glanced again at the untouched letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop had hardened into a firm resolve. I couldnt let it go.
May I come back for the recipe? I asked at the doorway.
Come by, Grace. Always welcome, he replied, a flash of warmth breaking through his frostbitten stare. Ill even tell you about my secret zucchini jam.
I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing behind me, sealing him once more in his quiet museum. I returned to my flat, and in the hush of my own room finally allowed myself to breathe.
I pulled the comb from my pocket and set it on the table. It still glimmered with its rainbow teeth, no longer just a pretty trinket but a keya key that had opened a door into anothers tragedy.
I sat, opened a notebook, and began to write. I could not pour the whole letter at once; emotions overflowed. I wrote the first lines, the most essential:
Dear Jane, weve never met. My name is Grace, your fathers neighbour. I beg you to read this till the end
Outside, night deepened. I wrote, erased, rewrote, feeling the weight of responsibility and a strange confidence that what I was doing was the only possible thing.
Three weeks passed. The letter was sent, and nothing returnedno call, no reply, no angry text. Only a silence as oppressive as Alberts flat.
I visited him often. We drank tea with jam, and he, revived by my company, told me new details of his recipes. I pretended great interest, and I feared his gaze might read deceit, fearing I had only stirred up old wounds. Each departure left me more uneasy, wondering if I had ruined everything.
One afternoon, returning from university, I passed a familiar scene at our buildings landing. A small crowd of neighboursour local oldgirlswere chattering about the bench where Albert usually sat. He was absent, but they whispered unabashedly.
they called him The Grim for a reason, always at odds with everyone. Even his own wife
I stood rooted, my blood pounding. The pain they spoke of surged through me like a wave. I stepped forward.
They fell silent, eyes widening at my sudden appearance.
Are you talking about Albert Whitaker? I asked, my voice louder than I intended in the evening hush.
A braver woman in the group answered, Yes. What of him?
I swallowed, feeling my throat tighten.
We wanted to thank you, she said, voice trembling, for the letter and everything.
Behind her, a younger woman with a bright smile added, If it hadnt been for you, we might never have come back.
She dabbed a hand to her eye, then sighed.
I was lost. I blamed him for everything. It was easier to lash out at him than face my own grief. He too had lost something priceless, and he was left alone.
She pulled a small bundle from her bag, wrapped in the same grey fabric with the pearl flower.
Its from Albert, from us. He asked me to give it to you.
I took the parcel automatically. They nodded once more and drifted down the stairwell.
Back in my flat, I unfolded the cloth. Inside lay a second comb, identical to the first, with a note in Alberts firm hand: Thank you for helping us find each other. May it bring you happiness. Albert, Jane & Molly.
I clutched the cool plastic, two identical keys that had unlocked the same door.
That night I sat by the window, watching the street lights flicker on. I thought how oddly everything was arrangedone accidental meeting, one seemingly useless object, one timely word could change everything. It could break the wall of misunderstanding and let light back in.
I placed one comb in a tiny wooden box, a keepsake of the miracle that sometimes lies hidden in plain sight. The other I ran through my own unruly hair. Warmth spread from within, a heat of hope that had thawed an old mans frozen heart, melted the ice in his familys, and now settled softly within me.
I stared into the dark glass, at my own reflectionmessy hair, sleepy eyes, a faint smile.
All was as it should be.
