The loft groaned under Simon’s feet as he crept up the shaky ladder, as though afraid to disturb the ghosts of the past. The air was thick with dust, rotting wood, yellowed newspapers, and something else—indescribable but achingly familiar. The scent of childhood, sharp as a needle, tugging at his heart and dragging memories in its wake. Simon hadn’t been up here in twenty-five years. Not since he’d slammed the cottage door behind him, swearing he’d never return. At eighteen, the world had felt cramped as that old house with its creaky stove, lopsided table, and suffocating silence where his mother’s every word had sounded like a verdict. He’d been desperate to escape. Now he stood there, in the dim light soaked with the past, which waited for him without a whisper.
Simon—grown now, with an aching back and shadows under his eyes—felt like a stranger in his own home. A crumpled bus ticket sat in his pocket, bought in a haze of doubt. A week ago, his mother had died. The neighbour had called: “Simon, she asked for you till the end.” No judgment in her voice, just exhaustion and sorrow.
He’d arrived three days later. Buried her. At the graveside, he’d stood apart, as if this couldn’t possibly be his life. Silently watched the fresh mound of earth, still unsettled. For a long time. No tears, no words. And then he couldn’t leave. He stayed in the house, drifting through rooms like a ghost. Nothing had changed: her worn dressing gown still hung on the hook, missing a button; the battered recipe book in the cupboard, a faded birthday card tucked inside; under her pillow—an envelope with his name. Unopened, waiting all these years.
The loft was the one place he’d avoided. Until this morning. The door had seemed to breathe down his neck, whispering of a past he wasn’t ready to face.
Up there, he found the box. Dusty, ancient, with “Do Not Touch. Mum” scrawled in her hand—familiar, yet distant. Inside: photos. Yellowed, dog-eared, but vivid as lightning flashes. Him—a scrawny kid with scraped knees and a grin he’d forgotten he ever had. His mother—young, a scarf hastily tied, eyes full of warmth. His father—stern but smiling softly, an arm around his shoulders like a shield against the world. The photos ended, and beneath them lay a diary. Her neat, slanted handwriting was a voice he’d have known anywhere.
Simon read perched on an old trunk, knee propped up just like when he’d hidden here with a book as a boy. He read until the light faded, until the words blurred and his fingers went numb. The diary held everything: how she’d hidden his father’s letters to spare him the pain. How she’d saved for his education, tucking away pounds in a biscuit tin, skimping on her own medicine. How she’d sat by the window at night, clutching the phone, willing it to ring. How she’d cried when it didn’t. How proud she was, even when he stayed silent. How she’d kept her distance—not from indifference, but from a love he’d been too blind to see.
He stepped outside into the darkness. The village sky sprawled above him, thick with stars—brighter than any he’d seen in London. Simon leaned against the old well, rough wood chilling his palm as if reaching straight into his heart. And for the first time in years, he whispered:
“Sorry, Mum.”
A month later, he sold his London flat. Without a shred of regret. Handed the keys to the new owners, shut the door, and didn’t look back. Left everything: the sofa, the telly, even the books he’d once thought mattered. Returned to the village. To the house where he’d taken his first steps and where his mother had taken her last breath.
He rebuilt the hearth, just as his father had taught him. Fixed the porch, replaced the cracked window, raked the dead leaves from the garden. Took a job at the village school—not out of some grand dream, but because he understood now how important it was to be the adult who listens. Spoke to the children the way he wished someone had spoken to him—without mockery, without pushing.
The loft was tidy now. Boxes stacked neatly, dust swept away, the silence alive, not heavy. In the corner—one box labelled “Simon. Keep.” And he did. Not as a museum piece, but as part of himself. Sometimes he opened it. Sometimes he just sat beside it.
Because some things can’t be thrown away. Even if they’re dusty. Even if they break your heart. *Especially* if they break your heart. In that pain, he’d found the love he’d ignored for far too long.
