**Glass Held Together by Hope**
When Emily woke, the room was filled with pale morning light, but the air still clung to last night’s dinner—overdone roast potatoes, slightly too salty, with a crisp edge. Just how she liked them, tasting of something imperfect yet homely. The silence in the room was thick, as if night hadn’t quite left, only hidden behind the wardrobe, refusing to let go.
The other side of the bed was empty. A dent in the pillow remained—shallow but unmistakable. He had left carefully, quietly. That hollow was louder than any goodbye.
Emily pulled the quilt around herself and sat up, gazing at the window. It was crisscrossed with yellowed strips of tape, edges damp and curling. She used to do this as a child in York with her grandmother—against storms, against thunder. Now it was against fear. Against war. Against the explosions. No laughter this time. No peppermint tea.
Her husband was in Liverpool. A volunteer. An electrician. Gone to mend broken power lines. “If not me, then who?” he’d said, with that faint, fragile smile—like spider’s silk. It haunted her dreams, that smile. In them, he walked away without looking back, fading into a bright haze. He had kissed her forehead, ruffled their daughter’s hair—as if stepping out for bread.
Their daughter, Beatrice, was nine. She slept in the next room, curled tight under an old owl-patterned duvet. One small hand stretched toward an empty space—where a stuffed teddy bear used to lie. No one remembered where it had gone. On the wall hung a poster Beatrice had drawn last spring—a house with an orange roof, flowers by the doorstep, and the words: “We are loved here. Leave us be.” The colors had faded, the edges curled, but it still hung there. A quiet charm. A prayer taped to the wall.
Emily reheated porridge, topped up her coffee—the burnt tang blending with instant bitterness, sharp and familiar. She perched on the windowsill, knees drawn up, staring at the crack in her mug. Just like the one in her heart—old, unhealing. Every corner of the flat knew the weight of waiting. Knew the sounds, the smells, the quiet breaths of dread.
Two messages from her husband glowed on her phone:
— Power’s back.
— Boy and his cat sleep in the basement. In a rucksack. Together.
She stared at the screen. The words were simple but cut deep. More truth in them than in anything around her.
She tapped a heart. Deleted it. Typed, “Hang in there.” Deleted it. Then just: “Are you alive?” Sent.
No reply. The fridge clicked—startled, like her.
At midday, Aunt Mabel from the third floor stopped by. Wiry, quick-handed, her voice always on the verge of cracking. She brought a tin of corned beef and three eggs.
—From the aid parcel. You need it more. You’ve got the little one.
Emily murmured thanks, eyes down.
—Saw them taping up windows on the ground floor again. Just like in ’39. History’s a loop, isn’t it?
Emily knew. Wanted to speak, but words stuck—somewhere between ribs and memory.
—Back then, we drew crosses. Prayed. Now we tape. Stay silent. Still hope. Mad, isn’t it? But we do.
Emily nodded. Slow. Certain.
Next morning, Beatrice 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’s not soon. He knows the way. And he knows we’re waiting.
—What if he forgets?
—He won’t. He remembers you laughing when you dropped the jam jar. How you hid from thunder. Your drawings, the smell of cinnamon toast. All of it.
Beatrice nodded, swallowing tears. Then, softly:
—Do the taped-up windows really help?
Emily watched the paper shiver against the panes, like a heartbeat.
—Not really. But it feels less frightening. Like… hugging the house. Letting it know we’re here. It’s not alone.
Beatrice pressed a palm to the glass. Quiet.
That evening, Emily switched on the desk lamp and wrote:
—Bea misses you.
An hour later, the reply came:
—Miss you both.
That night, they slept three in the bed—Emily, Beatrice, and Hope. No space taken, no shifting, no sound. But warmth. Breathing with them, somewhere between faith and sleep. Beatrice held her mother’s hand. Tight.
By morning, the tape on the window had lightened—as if soaking up some of the dark. Sunlight seeped through softly, like stained glass in a cathedral.
And when Emily woke again, the room smelled of something more than food—something like return. Not footsteps. Not a voice. Just presence. As if someone had breathed beside her. She didn’t rush to the door. Just sat, listening. Clinging to that air. That scent. That Hope.