—You do realise your fridge has been empty for a week, yeah?— Anthony’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a January gust. He stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his coat, like he was afraid to stay too long in that dismal little flat—the peeling paint, the musty smell of old wood hanging in the air.
Emily said nothing. She sat curled into herself on a rickety chair, watching the thin strip of light squeezing through the grimy window, trembling on the scuffed linoleum. Sunday morning, but inside her, it was the bleakest kind of autumn. Every word, every movement took effort she didn’t have left.
—I don’t get how you can live like this,— Anthony went on, peering into the empty pot on the stove as if hoping to find traces of a meal. —Do you even eat?
She gave a slight shrug. The honest answer? Sometimes. Sometimes not. Just like everyone else. Except inside her, the gears that kept joy, hunger, life turning had ground to a halt.
Anthony was her older brother. The only one who still bothered to visit. Once a month, he’d turn up, same as when they were kids and their dad sent him to check she hadn’t scraped her knee or left the lights on. But Dad was gone now. And Emily lived like she was trapped in a glass box—air getting heavier, walls staying just as clear.
—I’ll get you some groceries,— he said, firm, like handing down a sentence. —Meat, veg, pasta. You’ll make a proper meal. Got it?
Emily nodded. Not agreement, just exhaustion. Her chest felt hollow, like an abandoned house where dust coated the windows and footsteps echoed louder than voices ever could.
He left half an hour later, leaving behind a bag of shopping and the lingering scent of his aftershave—along with the usual slogans. “Pull yourself together.” “Life goes on.” “You’ll sort yourself out.”
When the door clicked shut, Emily stood. Slowly, like she might startle the silence. She unpacked the shopping: potatoes, onions, milk, butter. A cut of beef—fresh, glistening crimson. She walked to the window, pushed it open, and tossed the meat into the yard. Then she closed it just as carefully, like she was locking something away. The rest went into the fridge. Not out of spite—just shame that the meat seemed more alive than she was.
She worked from home—some analyst job for a company she only knew by the logo on emails. Her world had shrunk to a laptop screen, spreadsheets, reports. Numbers lined up in perfect columns, formulas never failed, the sums always balanced. Sometimes she thought life could be balanced too—assets, liabilities, net worth. But life wasn’t a ledger. Losses didn’t add up neatly, and the bottom line was always in the red, leaving a void no figure could fill.
On Wednesday, her phone rang. Unknown number, a woman’s voice—calm, but with a scratch to it.
—Emily Watson?
—Yeah.
—This is Paws & Hope shelter. You applied to volunteer?
Emily froze. Her fingers found a biscuit crumb on the table, rolling it under her thumb like she could crush the weight in her chest.
—Yeah,— she breathed. —Think it was a couple months back.
—We’re short-staffed. Especially weekends. Got thirty dogs and cats here.
Saturday, she went. A little house on the city’s edge, bare trees clawing at the sky. It smelled of damp fur, antiseptic, and something almost forgotten—something alive. A woman in a faded jumper waved her in.
—Shoes off, wash up. Puppies that way, injured lot here, old-timers round back. Plenty to do.
One dog—a shaggy thing with a patchy coat and watchful eyes—kept staring at her. Emily crouched, ran a hand over his fur. Warm. Alive. Real. Smelled of dog and earth and stubborn will.
He nudged her palm with his nose and stayed there. The woman in the jumper shook her head.
—Duke doesn’t take to strangers. But he’s chosen you.
An hour later, Emily was scrubbing kennels, hauling sacks of kibble, soothing trembling pups. Her back ached, hands raw from scrubbing, hair stuck to her forehead—but something inside her had thawed. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel like a ghost. Just a person—tired, warm, real.
—Come back tomorrow, if you can,— the woman said, wiping her hands on her apron.
—I will,— Emily said. And she meant it. Even if it meant trekking across town through puddles and biting wind, she’d be there.
A month later, Duke came home with her. He sniffed every corner of the flat before settling on the threadbare rug, a warm, scruffy ball. Anthony dropped by with a bowl, a bag of kibble, and a squeaky toy.
—Starting to look like a proper home,— he said, eyeing the dog. —Progress.
Emily smiled. First time in ages. Later, she bought flowers—daisies, stretching toward the sun. New curtains—cheap, but patterned like summer fields from childhood. She took forever picking them, like her life depended on it. Fresh bedsheets—crisp white, smelling of wind and mornings. And she started baking. Just so the flat smelled of warmth, not emptiness. Kneading dough with her hands, working in all the things she couldn’t say.
Some mornings, she still woke with the weight in her chest. Some days, she’d stare out the window and think nothing had changed. On those days, she wanted to burrow under the duvet, switch off her phone, pretend the world didn’t exist. But now there was a food bowl in the corner, a chewed-up toy on the floor, and Duke snoring on the sofa—warm, alive. And life, even if it was cracked like old china, felt real again. Not perfect. But worth holding onto.
