Shadows Beyond the Glass
Every evening, precisely at six, Paul would settle by the window. Not a minute earlier, not a moment late. As if an unseen mechanism within him clicked into place, setting the same ritual in motion: boil the kettle, take down the old book, arrange himself on the worn cushion by the sill. On the windowsill—steaming mug, book, and in the corner of the glass, a faint mist of breath left by the chill of a Manchester autumn. The room glowed under the warm light of an aging lamp, while dusk thickened beyond the pane. The phone stayed silent. The telly remained off. Paul watched the courtyard—his little living theatre, where every gesture, every footfall was part of a familiar play.
He was sixty-seven. A modest pension, health as changeable as the weather—fair one moment, stormy the next. His blood pressure nagged, his knees ached, but he carried on. Lived alone. His wife had slipped away six years prior—quietly, in her sleep, no suffering, they’d told him. Since then, the house echoed differently: footsteps without weight, floorboards creaking of their own accord, a silence grown thick as wool. The children had scattered—his son in Edinburgh, his daughter in Canada. They rang on holidays, spoke in clipped tones as if ticking off a duty. Visited even less. But the courtyard—the courtyard was constant. Faithful as an old hound making its nightly rounds, never missing a corner.
The courtyard was plain, almost drab: a lopsided bench, an ancient maple with peeling bark, a handful of cars, and a sandpit long turned to a graveyard of cigarette stubs and broken toys. The pavement had cracked, spring puddles reflecting nothing but grey sky and the dull windows of the council flats. Yet Paul knew this yard as well as his own reflection. He noticed who tossed rubbish carelessly, who lurked behind the garages with a bottle, who walked their dog, who lied about going to work but really just loitered. He read them like a book, each character playing their part, never deviating from the script.
But the heart of it—every evening, she passed by. A woman in a dark green coat. Tall, with a proud bearing, hair neatly pinned, a book pressed to her chest. Always alone. No phone, no earphones. Her footsteps were like notes of a silent melody she carried within. She moved unhurried but with purpose, as if certain of her path. And each time, passing beneath his window, she would glance up. Sometimes a faint nod. Sometimes—just the ghost of a smile. A wisp of a thing, as though it were a gift meant only for him. And it was enough. Enough to make the evening breathe.
He didn’t know who she was. At first, he thought her a new tenant from the next building. Then he noticed—she didn’t greet anyone, was never seen in the shops, as though she emerged from nowhere. Always at six-fifteen. Like clockwork. Never rushed, never late, never straying from her route. There was something mesmerizing in it—a constancy his life lacked, where everything else slipped through his fingers like sand.
Paul began to wait. To prepare. He put on a clean shirt, one that still carried the scent of washing powder, dabbed on cologne though he knew she wouldn’t smell it through the glass. Brewed fresh tea, set out three biscuits as if expecting company. He nursed no illusions about it. Just wanted to feel like a man with a reason to be there. Not a spectator, but part of it—even in this quiet, nearly invisible play.
Then one evening, she didn’t come. Nor the next day. A week passed. A chill crept into his chest like an unwelcome draft. He couldn’t explain why her absence felt like loss. As if the world had muted a sound it couldn’t do without. Paul tried to read, turned on the wireless, but everything rang hollow. Like someone had switched off the lights in his theatre.
On the ninth day, he went down to the courtyard. Not for bread, not for medicine—just because. Sat on the bench, feeling the cold seep through his coat. Watched the wind tug at bare maple branches, a neighbour’s cat slinking toward the cellar. Then he walked to the next building. Peered into windows—some glowing with tellys, others with lamplight. Finally, to the bench by the postbox. And there, he saw her.
She sat hunched like a schoolgirl, wrapped in a flimsy cardigan too thin for the autumn wind. No coat this time. A book lay open beside her but untouched, as though she’d lost the will to read.
“Evening,” he said, voice wavering where he’d hoped it wouldn’t.
She looked up. Smiled—but this smile was weighed with sorrow, heavy as wet snow. As if words hadn’t touched her in ages, and silence had taken root inside her.
“I waited for you to come down,” she said. “But you never did.”
He sat beside her. Said nothing. Then, as though exhaling:
“Thought you’d vanished.”
“I thought so too. Then I realised—you can’t vanish if someone remembers you.”
They sat as the courtyard drowned in darkness. People passed. Shadows shifted. Lights flickered on and off in the windows. The bench was an island where time paused. Then he asked if she’d like tea. Simply, as if he’d always known he’d say it. She studied him—long, searching, as if making sure this wasn’t mere courtesy, not just chance. Then she nodded. Decisively, like someone choosing to believe.
She said yes.
Now they watched the courtyard together. At six. Still quiet. But the silence had changed—grown softer, warmer, like an old blanket. The breath-fog on the glass spread wider. The tea steeped stronger. Because now it was for two.
