Glass Held Together by Hope
When Emily woke, the room was bright, but the air still carried the scent of last night’s dinner—slightly burnt roast potatoes, just the way she liked them, with a crispy edge and a touch too much salt. Homely, imperfect. The silence hung thick, as if the night hadn’t fully left, just hidden behind the wardrobe, unwilling to let go.
The other half of the bed was empty. A dent in the pillow. The kind that told her he’d left quietly, recently. That dent was louder than words.
Emily pulled the blanket around her, sat up, and looked toward the window. Strips of yellowed tape crisscrossed the glass, edges damp from condensation. She’d done this as a child in Cambridge with her grandmother—against storms, against thunder. Now, it was against fear. Against war. Against the sound of distant blasts. No laughter this time. No peppermint tea.
Her husband was in Liverpool. A volunteer. An electrician. Gone to fix broken power lines. “If not me, who?” he’d said, with that fragile smile—like spider’s silk—that would haunt Emily’s dreams for nights to come. In them, he walked away without looking back, vanishing into mist. He’d kissed her forehead, ruffled their daughter’s hair—as if he’d just popped out for bread.
Their daughter, Charlotte, was nine. She slept curled under an old owl-patterned duvet in the next room, one arm stretched toward the empty space where her stuffed bear used to be. No one remembered where it had gone. On the wall hung a drawing from last spring—a house with an orange roof, flowers by the doorstep, and the words: “Love us. Leave us be.” The colors had faded, the edges curled, but it still hung there. A quiet charm. A prayer stuck with tape.
Emily reheated porridge, topped up her coffee—burnt and bitter, the taste almost comforting. She perched on the windowsill, legs tucked under her, staring at the crack in her mug. Like the one in her heart—old, unhealed. Every corner of the flat knew what it meant to wait. Knew the sounds, the smells, the breath of dread.
Two messages from her husband:
“Power’s back on.”
“Boy with a cat sleeping in a basement. In a rucksack. Together.”
Emily stared at the screen. Simple words that cut deeper than anything around her.
She tapped a heart. Deleted it. Typed “Stay safe.” Deleted it. Then just: “Are you alive?” Sent.
No reply. The fridge clicked—startled, like her.
At noon, Aunt Margaret from downstairs stopped by. Frail, quick movements, voice stretched thin. She brought a tin of corned beef and three eggs.
“From the aid parcel. You need it more. With the little one.”
Emily thanked her, eyes down.
“Saw them taping up windows on the first floor again. Just like in ’41. History repeats, doesn’t it?”
It did. Emily wanted to say something, but the words stuck—somewhere between her ribs and her memory.
“Back then, they drew crosses. Prayed. Now we tape. Stay quiet. Still hope. Foolish, eh? But people do.”
Emily nodded. Slowly. Yes, she understood.
The next morning, Charlotte asked:
“Mum, what if Dad doesn’t come back?”
Emily cupped her daughter’s face, felt the tremble in her cheeks.
“He will. Even if it takes time. He knows the way. And he knows we’re waiting.”
“What if he forgets?”
“He won’t. He remembers how you laughed when you spilled jam. How you hid from thunder. Your drawings, the smell of cinnamon in the kitchen. All of it.”
Charlotte nodded, fighting tears. Then whispered:
“Does the tape… really keep us safe?”
Emily watched the paper flutter against the glass, like a heartbeat.
“Not really. But it helps. Like… hugging the house. Letting it know we’re here. It’s not alone.”
Charlotte pressed her palm to the window. Silent.
That evening, Emily turned on the lamp and wrote:
“Charlotte misses you.”
An hour later, the reply came:
“Miss you both.”
That night, they slept three in the bed—Emily, Charlotte, and Hope. The kind that takes no space, never snores. But it’s warm. It breathed with them, somewhere between faith and sleep. Charlotte held her mother’s hand. Tight.
By morning, the tape on the window had lightened—as if it had swallowed some of the dark. Sunlight seeped through gently, like light through stained glass.
And when Emily woke, the room smelled of something more than food—of return. Not footsteps. Not voice. Just presence. As if someone had breathed beside her. She didn’t rush to open the door. Just sat, listening. Holding onto that air. That scent. That hope.
