The flat opposite came to Emma Clarke through a halfhearted advert: Terraced house, city centre, cheap, urgent. It looked suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet and peeling windowsills, yet its ceilings were high and the windows huge.
After her divorce Emma wasnt looking for a roof so much as a refuge, a space where no one asked, Are you sure you wont regret this? She collected the keys on a Friday evening, as the town already smelled of damp leaves. October, that month when everything crumbles and then gathers itself anew.
The first night she lay awake, swaddled in a blanket on the windowsill, watching the opposite windows. The flat across the courtyard was as clear as a palm: fifth floor, a balcony with crimson petunias, a soft amber glow in the living room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a braid as thin as an old yoghurt advert, and two childrena little girl named Poppy and a boy called Charlie. They set the table together; Poppy bounced, Charlie held her hand, the mother smiled, the father uncorked a bottle of wine. Their laughter rang even through the glass.
Emma sank onto her pillow. How long had she not heard home laughter?
The next morning she sipped coffee on the same sill and watched again. The family ate breakfast; the man read the newspaper, the woman ran her fingers through Poppys hair, Charlie darted around with a toy car.
During the day Emma unpacked boxes. That evening she walked to the corner shop, across the yard. At the lift she met the woman from the opposite flat, lugging bags of apples and cherry cola. An apple rolled under Emmas foot.
Oh! Sorry, the woman giggled. Everything slips from my hands, as usual!
Emma caught the apple and smiled.
No problem. Need a hand? the woman asked.
Would be lovely! Im Lucy Harper. You moved in recently, right?
Just a few days ago. Emma.
Then you must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. May I bring it over?
An hour later Lucy appeared with a steaming tin, the scent of cinnamon, and a glass of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She moved lightly, like a cat in jeans, a highwaisted taillike scarf, a grin too wide.
They drank tea and talked. Lucy said, We moved here five years ago. We were lucky: an investor showed up, we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to a grammar school. Im home now, but Im thinking of returning to a mumcafé.
A mumcafé? Emma asked.
Yes, a place where mums can sit with prams, chat, not rush.
Emma listened, smiled, and felt something quiet yet sharp stir insidesomething like envy.
You have it so good. Everything feels real, Emma murmured.
We try, Lucy nodded.
When Lucy left, Emma turned to the opposite window again. Lucy stood at the stove, the husband slipped behind her and hugged her. She laughed. The children leapt, fell, squealed.
Emma exhaled. This is how it should bewarm, safe, borne of love. She switched off the light, but even as sleep took her, the opposite windows glimmered like a cinema screen showing a film she had missed.
* * *
Emma, are you home? Ive brought a honey cake! Lucy burst through the door, a pie in one hand, a knitted bag in the other, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. A fresh bruise lingered near her collarbone, as if from a belt or a hard hand.
Are you alright? Emma asked.
Lucy tugged at her sweaters collar. Oh, this? Im clumsy. I didnt close the cupboard door and then I bent over silly.
Emma didnt believe her, but said nothing. Lucy began visiting oftenonce a week at first, then nearly every day, with pies, salads, stories.
We hold a honesty night every Saturday, Lucy explained one night. We say what irritates us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It works.
The children? Emma prompted.
We never argue in front of them. They must see us as a team.
Emma listened, but a growing feeling nagged her: it was all too perfect, too textbook.
One evening, walking home together from the shop, Lucy confessed, I used to be completely differentadvertising, coffeefuelled nights, catching taxis. Then I met him. He turned me upside down.
What do you mean? Emma asked.
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to play roles, not to lie.
Emma nodded, yet the words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a handbook on female happiness.
A few days later Emma stood at her window out of habit. The opposite flat was dim, then a flash of light, a screammale, then female, then a childs wail. The door slammed shut. The lights went out.
The next morning Emma met Lucy in the lift, sunglasses perched on her nose despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? Emma asked.
Fine, just a bit burnt out. Happens.
Emma didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Emma visited Lucys home, the children sat silently on the carpet, clutching toys like shields. Lucy set tea down and Emma asked cautiously, Are you sure youre all right?
Lucy froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly. Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop windoweveryone sees a happy family, a tidy wife, obedient kids. At night I wake up thinking Im shouting, but no one hears.
Maybe you should
No, Lucy cut in. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar. Whos perfect?
That night Emma watched their windows again. The family still sipped tea and laughed, but Emma saw the little girl flinch when her father raised his voice, Lucy avert her gaze, the husband speak through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale veneer, but beneath, sharp teeth clicked.
* * *
Emma increasingly wondered: what if she was wrong? What if this was all her projection? After the divorce she trusted no man, no relationship, not even herself. Perhaps envy sharpened her vigilance. Yet each encounter with Lucy added a new knot of anxiety.
One day Lucy arrived with pancakes, her hand awkward, barely bending. Everything okay?
Just a muscle strain. Yoga isnt a joke.
Lucys smile was plastic, displaywindow perfect. You can trust me if you want.
Lucys tone shifted, cold. Emma, stop. Hes not a monster. Hes just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable sometimes. I know it.
The bruise, Lucy. You wear sunglasses when its gloomy. You whisper to the children.
Its necessary.
What does necessary mean?
If you dont get it youve never really been married.
Emma had no reply. Lucy left.
That night Emma watched a series, but the dialogue vanished, leaving only a thudding in her head, a fluttering chest, a light panic as before a storm. Then a sound.
First a muffled thump, then a screamfemale, then a harsh male shout: Quiet! I said quiet! Something crashed, metal scraped.
Emma froze, rose, and moved to the opposite window. Light flickered inside, shadows sprinted like actors rehearsing. A scream, then a childs cry. Then silence.
She dialed 999, hands trembling. The operators voice was calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. It isnt the first time.
Did the neighbours call? Any confirmation?
I
She stopped. No proof, only her own night and the feeling that if she didnt act, it would get worse.
Well log the call. Police will come, but its best you stay out of it.
Police arrived forty minutes later. Footsteps, muffled talk, a door slammed, then silence. Through the window Emma saw a manLucys husbandstanding in the doorway, speaking politely to officers, papers in hand. Lucy was nowhere to be seen.
The next morning a soft knock came at Emmas door. Lucy stood there, eyes swollen, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
Emma let her in, set a kettle boiling.
Did you call them? Lucy asked, voice cracked.
Yes. Im sorry.
Lucy sank into a chair, staring at a point on the wall. I thought if I was a good wife if I smiled, cooked, listened hed love me. Hed soften. Hed see my effort. But each week he squeezes a little tighter.
You can leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Lucys eyes widened, then she pressed a hand to her lips and broke into sobs. Youre the only one who doesnt pretend not to see. Everyone else turns away. Even at the school, everyone knows but says nothing. Its all darkness around us.
It isnt darkness for you, Emma said. But youre not a saviour. Youre just a neighbour.
Neither am I a thing.
Silence stretched, then Lucy stood. Ill go. Not today, but I will.
Emma nodded, feeling as if she were not just a spectator but a dim light in anothers windowsoft, not blinding, but warm.
* * *
Night fell thick as jam. Darkness pooled in the windows, silence hung in the air, only a whisper of rain on the sill. When Emma heard a knock, she first thought it a trick of the mind, then again, twice, cautiously.
She opened the door to find Lucy, coat flung over her shoulders, slippers on, no umbrella despite the drizzle. Her hair was a wet curtain, her face streaked with tears, a fresh bruise on her cheek, a plush rabbit clutched in her arms.
May I just stay a while? she whispered.
Emma let her in. Lucy curled on the sofa corner, hugging the rabbit, shoulders trembling.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be quiet, hell teach me. He struck. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time.
Are the children?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Lucy, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nothing. I wont find work. With the kids, no one will take me.
Emma sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core.
Youre a person. You can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill find them. Ill help. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Emma. Im tired of fearing and more tired of hoping.
Im here. Not a hero, but I wont turn away.
Lucy rested her head on Emmas shoulder, hugging the rabbit tighter, whispering, Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. Who simply is.
And Ill stay until you have the strength to say Enough.
They sat in silence, listening to rain erase old hurts.
Two weeks later Lucy left, no suitcase, just a rucksack, a bag of childrens clothes, a tidy folder of documents. Emma held the folder as they stepped out onto the almostmidnight street, the whole block asleep. The children walked quietly; the girl clutched her brothers hand, the rabbit poked out of the rucksack like a distress signal.
The flat Emma found for Lucy was modest: a single room, a flaking bathroom, an ancient fridge. It was quiet, and there was no one to shout, throw things, or command.
This is where we start fresh, Lucy said as the children fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Emma you are the first line of this new page. Thank you.
Emma only nodded.
Then everything swirled. Emma contacted shelters, called lawyers, drafted statements. Lucy learned to live anew: remote work, groceries from a list, sleeping with the lights off without fear. The children adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Emma a drawing: two women, two children, the words above it: For Emma.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something inside Emmas heart thawed. She rose early, made coffee, and, as before, went to the window.
The opposite windows were empty. The woman who had lived there was gonenot just from the flat but from the life shed boxed herself into, from the showcase of the perfect wife.
Emma watched and felt no envy, no pain, no lonelinessjust calm. Her home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door. Emma opened it to find Lucy in a coat, cheeks pink, the children trailing behind the girl with the plush rabbit, the boy with a jam jar.
Did you bake anything today? Lucy asked.
Emma laughed. Come in. Its just out of the oven.
The door swung wide, not just into a flat but into a morning, into a life where perfection wasnt requiredonly honesty.
