Emma
It was mid-morning, and I stood at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden behind a tree trunk, clutching Tommy's letter in my hand. The air was sharp with sap and moss, grounding and familiar, though it only deepened the ache in my chest.
He sat on the blanket, his head bent, pen scratching across the page. His brow furrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly as though he were whispering the words to himself. I almost ran to him, almost broke the fragile spell by flinging myself into his arms. But instead, I waited.
He looked up.
Our eyes met, and his tentative, shy smile warmed me from the inside out. My throat tightened with everything I couldn't say. I stepped into the clearing slowly, letting him see me, letting him be the one to welcome me.
We sat together, our letters spread between us like treasures. He read mine aloud, voice trembling, and when it was my turn, I whispered his words so they might linger in the air, cling to me like breath. Our fingers brushed as we traded pages, sparks running up my arms. The silence between us was alive, filled with promises neither of us dared to voice.
The woods wrapped around us, timeless and unchanging, our world sealed off from everything that waited beyond.
I woke with a start.
For a heartbeat, I was still there — his hand around mine, his voice low in my ear, the sun shifting through the branches above us. But the hush of the clearing gave way to the muffled sounds of my siblings bickering downstairs, the sunlight pouring through an unfamiliar window, the ache in my chest when I realised I'd only been dreaming.
My heart refused to slow. I pressed my palms to my eyes and breathed, but it didn't help.
He wasn't here.
The woods weren't here.
I dragged myself out of bed, dressing with slow, automatic movements. Breakfast was the usual chaos — Zoey spilling her milk, the twins arguing, Teddy pretending to be above it all. Mum hovered around us, washing dishes and rearranging cupboards, her sharp edges worn down since the move. She didn't drink now. She rarely shouted. She seemed lighter, almost purposeful.
I lingered at the window afterward, staring at neat gardens and straight-lined fences, everything so different from the wildness of the woods and the lake. My hand gripped the sill until my knuckles ached.
I told myself to be patient. His letters would come. Each one would be another thread in the tether that bound us. Until then, I had only memories to hold onto — fragile and bittersweet, but mine.
The day stretched ahead, indifferent to the hollow in my chest. I whispered a silent promise as I turned away from the glass: *Soon.*
The warmth of him, the way his hand had found mine, the brush of his lips — it had all felt real. But the quiet of my room and the sunlight slipping through the curtains reminded me that it hadn't. He wasn't here. The woods weren't here.
I swallowed hard, trying to shove the ache back down. Something no move, no distance, no circumstance could take away.
The promise of letters became the only rhythm I could rely on, the only thing steady in a summer that felt like it was collapsing around me. And with each one, the ache in my chest grew — not just from longing, but from knowing how fragile the memory of our summer was.
Hessle was nothing like our home by the lake. Its streets bustled with cars and chatter, the rows of brick houses solid and square. The air carried the tang of salt and industry, sharp enough to sting the nose, so different from pine and damp earth. I told myself it was bracing, that maybe if I breathed deep enough I could swallow some of its courage.
Mum was thriving. She hummed as she folded laundry, laughed when Dad teased her, and arranged cupboards like she had always lived here. The brittle tension of our old house had eased. Dad, too, had softened. He stood taller at the docks, he was greeted with respect, his voice carrying calm authority. He lingered over conversations instead of brushing them off. When he smiled at me one evening — really smiled — I wanted to melt into it, to confess the truth about what weighed on me. But I didn't.
Because even in the laughter and light of this new house, I felt like a shadow.
The ache wasn't theirs to carry. They deserved this fresh start, this happiness. I carried my longing in silence, holding onto Tommy's letters like a secret flame.
Every morning, I walked to the bakery, the bell above the door chiming softly as I stepped inside. The smell of warm bread and sugar dust felt like a hug. Louise, the owner, treated me kindly — like she could sense something fragile in me without ever asking about it. She'd let me box up the pastries, serve tea, or watch the ovens. By now, I knew exactly how long to leave the loaves before they turned golden.
Sometimes, I imagined Tommy walking in through the door. I'd be behind the counter, flour on my hands, and he'd smile that soft, shy smile of his — the one that always undid me. I'd pour him tea, sneak him an extra pastry, and for a few moments, it would feel like nothing had changed. I'd catch myself staring at the door when the bell rang, only to find strangers every time.
Each afternoon, I walked home past the small green where children played, clutching the day's wages. Every spare coin went into a tin under my bed. I'd labelled it *For the Lake.* Each pound, each clink of metal, felt like a promise. By the end of the summer, I'd have enough to cross the distance and step back into our world — even just for a few days.
Some nights, when the ache became too heavy, I'd sit by my window and reread his letters. His handwriting was slanted and neat, full of small hesitations where I knew he'd stopped to think. He told me about his studies, his brothers, his plans. But between every line, I could feel what he didn't say — the missing, the wanting, the same ache I carried.
I pressed the last letter to my lips and closed my eyes. "Soon," I whispered into the quiet. The word tasted like hope and heartbreak at the same time.
And somewhere, in a town not so far away, I liked to imagine him whispering it too.