The Light in the Window
Evening draped the small town of Milford in a damp, grey mist. Geoffrey Harrington trudged heavily toward the peeling front door of an old terraced house where his friend Peter lived. The lift, as usual, was out of order, and Geoffrey huffed his way up to the fifth floor. Catching his breath, he pressed the doorbell and waited.
The door creaked open, but instead of Peter, his daughter Emily stood there, her face brightening with a warm smile.
“Hello, Uncle Geoff!” she chirped. “Here to see Dad?”
“Aye,” Geoffrey nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.
“He’s not in, I’m afraid,” Emily said apologetically. “I sent him off to a health retreat. He’ll be back in a week.”
“A week?” Geoffrey’s brow furrowed, his voice heavy with something unspoken. “That’s… bad timing.”
“What’s wrong?” Emily studied his weary face, a knot forming in her chest.
“Nothing,” he muttered, waving a hand, though pain flickered in his eyes. “Right then, Emily, I’ll be off.”
“Wait, Uncle Geoff!” She stepped forward. “If you need something, tell me. Maybe I can help?”
“There’s nowt left for me now,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “Unless… You know my windows face this way, don’t you?”
“I suppose?” She frowned, uncertain where this was leading.
“Could you spot them?” Geoffrey lifted his gaze, and there was something unsettling in his stare.
“Spot them how?” Her confusion grew.
“Literally,” Geoffrey’s voice turned sharp. “Could you look in the evenings—see if my light’s on?”
“Uncle Geoff, what’s happened?” A chill ran down her spine.
“Nowt’s happened.” He sighed deeply. “Went for a check-up. They said summat weren’t right. Wanted me in hospital for tests.”
“And?” Emily’s eyes widened.
“Told ‘em no,” he grunted. “Walked out.”
“What? That’s madness!” she gasped. “If the doctors say you need tests, you should go!”
“Don’t want to,” he cut in, his voice cracking. “I’m tired, lass. No wife, no joy left. Been thinking… it’s time. So do this for me: watch my windows. If the light’s off for days, come knock. If I don’t answer—well, you know who to call. They’ll break the door, and on the table, you’ll find my son’s number. Ring him. Tell him to come give me a proper send-off.”
“Uncle Geoff, don’t talk like that!” Horror twisted her face. “It’s wrong even to think like this!”
“Wrong?” He scoffed. “I’m not planning owt. Just saying—I’ll take what time I get. Not clinging to life—never been cut that way. If you won’t do it, don’t. I’m going.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve, desperation in her grip. “Call your son! Tell him how you feel, make him come!”
“Why? He’s in Manchester, working, living his life. Won’t burden him. Enough, Emily.”
He turned and lumbered down the stairs, each step slow, as though carrying a weight. Emily stood frozen, throat tight, watching him go.
Outside, a cold drizzle fell. Geoffrey tugged his coat collar up and shuffled along the pavement, eyes fixed on the wet concrete. Every step seemed an effort. Then, in a pile of soggy leaves, he spotted a shivering puppy. Bedraggled and trembling, it gazed up at him with eyes full of silent pleading.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, stopping. “Just what I need. Can’t take you. If I go, who’ll care for you?”
The pup, as if understanding, wobbled forward and nosed his shoe. Geoffrey hesitated, then crouched with a sigh and scooped it up.
“You weigh a ton, you little devil,” he grumbled. “Fine, one night. Then I’ll take you to Emily. She’s young; she’ll sort you out.”
A week later, sharp knocks rapped at Geoffrey’s door. He opened it to find Peter, back from the retreat, face red with anger.
“What the hell’s this, Geoff?” he stormed. “Emily told me everything!”
“What’s *what*?” Geoffrey stepped aside. Behind him, a cheerful yapping filled the air as a now-groomed pup bounded toward them.
“And what’s *this*?” Peter blinked at the scruffy little thing wagging its tail furiously.
“Come through,” Geoffrey smirked, leading him to the kitchen. The pup danced around Peter’s feet, yipping excitedly.
“See that?” Geoffrey said, pride creeping into his voice. “Found him on my way back from yours. Thought I’d keep him dry for the night, then palm him off on Emily. But next morning, he looks at me like—*You’re stuck with me, old man*.” He chuckled. “Truth is, Pete, he’s helped. Three walks a day, got me moving again. Life’s not so empty now. No worries left. I feel like a lad again.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Peter murmured, crouching to scratch the pup’s ears. “Taken him to the vet?”
“Course,” Geoffrey nodded. “They reckon he’ll live twenty years. So, bit early for me to clock out. With her here,” he nodded at the pup, “I can breathe again.”
Geoffrey met his friend’s eyes, and for the first time in years, warmth flickered there. The pup, sensing it, nudged his hand. A quiet, living joy settled over the house.
