**The Mysterious Return of Emily: A Tale of Dreams and Fate**
I left work late tonight, not eager to return home. The empty flat felt colder than the autumn wind biting my cheeks. After a few steps, I sank onto a bench in the small park. Strangers hurried past, lost in their own worlds. The shop where I worked closed at eleven, and most nights, I didn’t leave until nearly midnight. By then, the streets were hollow, lit only by the dull glow of streetlamps.
“Good,” I thought, watching the indifferent figures pass. In this city, everyone was a stranger—even my neighbours in the building exchanged little more than nods. Loneliness had become my companion, and the weight of it was unbearable. Tipping my head back, I stared into the dark sky. Autumn had just begun, and though the stars were faint, they still flickered. But it wasn’t the season’s fault. The city lights smothered them.
Then, memory carried me back to childhood. I was six, a stifling summer night in the countryside. Restless, I fussed until my grandad, with a knowing wink, grabbed an old blanket and said, “Come on!” We climbed onto the hayloft—cool, sweet with the scent of cut grass and freedom. Through the gap in the roof, the stars shimmered, huge as a cat’s eyes.
“Grandad, can we reach the stars?” I’d asked.
“Course we can, love,” he’d said. “But you’ve got to chase ’em. Some folks dream, then sit waiting for it all to happen. But dreams drift further away. Before they know it, they’ve forgotten, settling for what they’ve got—never realising they’re unhappy.”
I’d frowned. “Like in school? If I want top marks but don’t study, I’ll fail?”
“Exactly,” he’d chuckled.
After that, the hayloft became my sanctuary. When sadness crept in, I’d climb up, gaze at the stars, and believe: if I kept going, things would turn out right. In Year Five, when my teacher praised my essay, I dreamed of becoming one myself. By Year Seven, I’d fallen for the new boy, James, whose father had bought the abandoned barn to start a farm. I imagined a future—a family, children, a home, preferably with him. I helped Gran and Grandad, tended the garden, made jam, picturing it all coming true.
But in Year Eight, everything shattered. I went to the seaside for the first time, on a trip Gran had arranged. The sea stunned me, vast and wild, and I added a new dream—returning there with a family of my own. But when I came back, disaster waited. The house was ash. Gran and Grandad were gone. I was alone. My parents had died when I was three, crashing on their way home from town before Christmas. Gran and Grandad had been my world.
Distant relatives—Aunt Vera and Uncle Greg—weren’t unkind, just indifferent. They had their own lives, their nine-year-old son, Michael. Aunt Vera worked half-days, then rushed Michael to clubs and football. Uncle Greg vanished into his job, then the sofa and his laptop. Michael, glued to his tablet, barely noticed me. I tried to help—cleaning, cooking, offering to fetch Michael from school—but Aunt Vera only frowned.
At my new school, I didn’t fit. Classmates mocked my country accent and clothes. Eventually, they ignored me. I studied harder, clinging to my teaching dream. But in Year Nine, Aunt Vera asked idly, “Emily, why not college after GCSEs? Get a trade by eighteen, earn your keep.” I understood: they wanted me gone. My form tutor was surprised but didn’t argue. So, I let my first dream fade.
Liam appeared in college—loud, funny, the life of every party. I didn’t love him, but I said yes to dates. After college, I took a job at the shop. Aunt Vera gave me the savings from my allowance, and grateful, I rented a tiny flat with Liam. He worked but spent nights out with mates, staggering home at dawn. I tried to build a home, but he never noticed. When I mentioned the future, he’d groan, “Don’t nag.” A year later, I left, abandoning the dream of a family.
“Maybe the seaside?” I’d wondered, but my manager snapped, “Holiday? We’re short-staffed.” I gave up. Work, the empty flat, books, or sleep. “There’s time,” I told myself. “I’ll study later, find love later, earn more without holidays.”
One evening, lost in thought at a crossing, a driver yelled, “Move it!” Waving him past, Grandad’s words echoed: “Dreams drift away, and folks never see how unhappy they’ve become.” That weekend, I went back to the village.
The house was crumbling, the yard overgrown. Only the summer kitchen stood intact. Stepping inside, memories rushed back—my laughter, Gran’s voice, Grandad’s footsteps. I ran to the door, but of course, no one was there.
“Afternoon. Interested in the place?” A man stood by the fence.
“I am,” I smiled. “James? Don’t you recognise me?”
“Emily?” He gaped. “No one’s been here in years. Just passing and saw someone inside. How are you? Staying long?”
“Just visiting,” I lied. “What about you?”
He talked about old classmates—some at uni, some in the city. He’d stayed to help his dad on the farm. “Space here, not like the city,” he said. I remembered the fields, the river, the woods. “Still beautiful?” I asked.
“Very. Fancy a look?”
We drove to the river, sat on a fallen tree, shared tea from a flask and fresh scones. James talked; I listened, breathing in childhood. For the first time in years, I felt light.
“And you?” he asked.
I told him everything—the shop, the loneliness, the lost dreams. “I came to start over.”
“Good for you,” he nodded. “Never too late.” His phone rang. “Got to go. Need a lift?”
“Back to the house,” I said, thinking, “Probably off to see his girlfriend.”
Alone, I lit the stove in the summer kitchen. Warmth spread, and with it, a plan. Next morning, I went to the village shop.
“Hello, Mrs. May! Remember me?”
“Emily? Is that you?”
“Any jobs going?”
“We’ve got a till, but try the farm. Old Tom needs help.”
At the farm, James grinned. “You? I was just coming to check on you!”
“Not meeting a girlfriend,” I realised, relieved. Aloud, I said, “I’m staying. Mrs. May said you’ve got work.”
“We do,” he smiled. “Come meet Dad.”
*
“Emily, you here?” James called that evening.
“Inside,” I answered, peering from the kitchen.
“Brought you a blanket, pillow. Make it cosier.”
“Any tea?” I laughed.
“Plenty,” he said. “You’re brave. I’m glad you came back.”
“Really?”
“Always. Had a crush on you in Year Seven. Hoped you’d return someday.”
“And here I am,” I said, taking his hand.
*
I studied part-time, qualified as a teacher—just as I’d dreamed. Now I work at the village school, light hours, between raising three kids, tending the farm, and keeping house. We rebuilt where the old house stood, adding a wide porch. Evenings, I sit there, watching the stars, thinking, “There’s still time.” We rarely go to the seaside—but here, we’re happy.
