The house on Deansgate had been silent for far too long. Claire hadnt set foot in her sons flat since the day the world fell away. She didnt want to, she couldnt. The tears had dried months ago, and grief had settled into a dull, relentless ache that seemed to press on her ribs like a weight she could never lift.
Sam was twentyeight, always healthy, never complaining. Hed finished university, landed a steady job, hit the gym, and was dating a girl named Hannah. Two months earlier he went to bed and didnt wake up.
When Sam was six, Claire divorced her husband, Tom, who was then thirty. The reason was the usualinfidelity, over and over. He stopped paying child support and vanished, leaving Sam to grow up without a father. Claires parents helped, and occasional suitors drifted into her life, but none ever coaxed her into another marriage.
Claire earned a living on her own. She first rented a tiny shop inside a local Tesco to sell frames and spectacles, drawing on her training as an ophthalmologist. After a few years she secured a loan, bought a modest premises on Oldham Road, and turned it into a respectable optical shop with her own consulting room. She built a client base, fitted lenses, and kept the business humming.
Last year she and Sam bought a onebedroom flat in Salford, right next to his. A small refurbishment gave it a fresh coat of paint, and for a moment Claire imagined a future where they could simply live.
Dust lay thick on the floorboards. Claire grabbed a rag, pushed the sofa aside, and a sleek black phone slipped out from beneath it. She searched the couch, the curtains, the kitchen counterfinally finding the device and plugging it into the charger.
Later, sitting in the dim living room, tears prickling her eyes, she scrolled through Sams photos. There he was at the office, laughing with colleagues; there he was on a weekend getaway with friends; there he was, arminarm with Hannah, smiling as if the world were right.
She opened Viber and, at the top of the chat list, saw a message from an old university mate, Dennis. The photo attached showed a young woman cradling a boy whose cheekbones mirrored Sams exactly.
Remember the New Years party at Lucys flat when we were still undergraduates? Lucys friend had a baby boy. Turns out she rents the flat opposite yours now. The kid looks just like Samlook, I snapped a quick pic for memorys sake, the text read, dated a week before the tragedy. Claires heart hammered. Sam had known this and hadnt told her. The realization struck like a cold bucket of water.
Dennis lived a few streets away, and Claire knew the area.
The next day, after closing the shop, she drove to the address Dennis mentioned. A boy, no older than five, darted around a narrow alley on a battered bike, shouting for a ride. Claire knelt beside him.
Do you have a bike of your own? she asked.
The boy shook his head.
A young woman, barely in her twenties, emerged from the doorway. Her makeup was heavy, bright, and clashed with the soft features of her face.
Who are you? she demanded.
I think Im his grandmother, Claire replied, surprising herself.
The womans eyes widened.
Im Emma, his mother, she said, extending a trembling hand. Nice to finally meet you.
Claire tucked the boy, Tommy, into the back seat and drove them to a nearby café. Over ice cream for Tommy and a flat white for herself, Emma began to untangle the knot of her past.
She had arrived from a Lancashire village at seventeen, enrolling in a tailoring college. Over the Christmas break, Lucy, a classmate, invited her to stay. Lucys parents had gone away for the holidays, leaving the flat empty.
Lucys friend, Dennis, was also there, celebrating the New Year with his friend Sam. In that fleeting night Emma and Sam crossed paths, and Sam left his number, promising to keep in touchthough he never called again.
When Emma discovered she was pregnant, she tried calling Sam. He answered, angry, telling her to think about contraception, handing her cash for an abortion, and demanding she disappear from his life forever. He never appeared again.
Emma never finished college; the dormitory kicked her out once she was pregnant. She could not return to the villageher mother had died years before, and her father and brother were both drinking away their days. She now rented a single room from an elderly widow, watching over her son while she worked long hours in a private dumpling factory, where the pay was modest but steady. She sent almost every penny she earned to the landlord, and despite the cramped flat, she kept trying to secure a place in a reputable nursery for Tommy.
The following day, Claire moved Emma, Tommy, and herself into Sams flat. From that moment, Claires life pivoted on an entirely new axis.
Tommy was placed in a decent private nursery. Claire found herself buying clothes for both Emma and the boy, spending evenings stitching together outfits, laughing at how his little gestures mirrored Sams the same stubborn set to his jaw, the same inquisitive glint in his eyes.
She took Emma under her wing, teaching her how to apply makeup subtly, how to dress smartly, how to keep a tidy home, and even how to cook a proper roast. In a word, Claire became Emmas mentor, her guardian, her anchor.
One evening, they sat together watching a latenight drama. Tommy curled his arms around Claires shoulders, pressed his forehead to her cheek, and whispered, Youre my favourite.
In that instant, Claire felt the hollow that had haunted her for years begin to fill. The crushing sorrow that once sat on her chest like a stone loosened, and a warm current of ordinary joy surged through her. She realized she had stepped back into a life where laughter could exist alongside loss, all because of this small, bright sparkher grandson.
Two years later, Claire and Emma walked Tommy into his first day of primary school. Emma had become Claires indispensable assistant at the optical shop, handling appointments and paperwork with efficiency.
Emma had also found a steady boyfriend, intent on building a serious future. Claire had no objections; life moved on, and she welcomed the prospect of love for the woman she had come to regard as family.
Now, at fiftyfour, Claire found herself being nudged toward marriage by a longstanding friend whod always admired her strength and grace. Why not? he said, smiling. Claire laughed, feeling the weight of years lift as she imagined a future still bright with possibilitiesher own happiness, Emmas, and Tommys.
