Unlit

Raindrops fall softly against my face, drawing cold lines down my skin. The sky hangs low and gray; the air smells of wet earth -that old, aching kind of scent.

Memories surface: the small house from childhood, bare feet on creaky stairs, the kettle’s hiss, an old song drifting from the radio. I run into the yard- the smell of cut grass and damp apple trees wrapping around me like a fragile embrace. A voice pulls me back to the present.

Just like that, the memory fades, and I’m standing on the station platform under the rain again.

“Sweetheart, you’ve grown so much... Don’t forget your grandmother. Come visit whenever you can - and call me often. Alright?” Agatha says, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, smoothing the fabric of my coat with habitual care. I study her: gray hair pinned neatly, glasses reflecting the pale sky. Her face is gentle, lined softly by time; her eyes a little tired, yet warm -holding that quiet sorrow she never talks about. Agatha raised me since I was six. My grandfather died before I was born; my parents, a few years later. I suppose I became her solace, a small anchor to her heart. She’s always been calm, steady, endlessly giving. She smells of bread, tea, and lavender - scents that stayed with me - a comfort I’ll never lose.

“Of course, Grandma, I’ll call. Like always,” I say, squeezing her hands.

“I managed to take a day off from the chaos, and I’ll call you as soon as I get there.” I kiss her cheek - warm, soft - and taste the faint salt of tears she pretends not to shed.

The train arrives. I step inside and glance back - her small figure on the platform, umbrella swaying, wrapped in a gray coat that somehow mirrors mine. The train starts to move, and her silhouette melts into the rainy haze.The carriage is nearly empty.Outside, green fields roll past - rain-soaked fences and distant houses with glowing windows . I put on my headphones and play The Smiths - Back to the Old House, letting the music merge with the rhythm of the tracks. Stations slip by: fewer trees now, more steel and glass. Hertford fades away, replaced by London’s sharp lines, its noise, its lights.

I’ve always loved this part - the shift from past to future, from calm to motion, from the known to the unknown.

By the time I reach the platform, the rain has softened into a mist. People hurry, luggage clattering, announcements echoing overhead. London smells of coffee, wet concrete, and newspapers - so different from Hertford’s calm, earthy calm . I catch the subway. Across from me, a girl reads; beside her, a man naps, coffee cup balanced in his hand. The lights flicker, faces blur in the glass. I meet my own reflection - tired, but steady. I glance at the route map even though I know every stop by heart. North London isn’t far.

The streets I walk are familiar - quieter than the city center, but alive. Pubs hum, bookstores glow, dogs tug at leashes, taxis hiss by. Some people hurry home; others just wander. I’ve lived here for four years now, learning to love every minute. Living and studying in London was never really a dream - it just always felt meant to be. Everything just fell into place - school, uni, the dorm, and then Charlotte. I shake off my umbrella and hang up my coat. The air smells of jasmine tea and something sweet.

“Lottie, I’m home,” I call, closing the door behind me. Silence. I move into the living room - it opens into the kitchen.

Green plants line the windowsill; travel photos fill the walls. On the counter - scattered magazines, a laptop, a mug engraved with C’est la vie.Charlotte sits there, humming softly, headphones on, typing. A loose sweater, wool socks, her hair in a messy braid. She turns, smiles, pulls off her headphones.

“Salut. How’s Grandma?” she asks - Her tone is gentle - the kind of concern she never hides.

Charlotte Vallée is a spark in this gray city. She laughs too much, quotes designers, leaves books everywhere, eats breakfast in bed. When we met in first year - Art History and Curatorial Studies - I didn’t think we’d get along. She, the daughter of wealthy French parents; me, the girl raised by her grandmother in a small town. But honesty drew us together, and carefreeness sealed it.

“She misses me. She’s lonely, but she’d never admit it,” I say, sinking onto the couch.

I call Grandma again, just to say I’ve arrived safely, to wish her good night. Charlotte twirls a strand of hair - one of those little habits I know by heart after years of living together. Living with her happened by accident. This apartment - a gift from her parents for her eighteenth birthday - somehow became mine too. I hesitated, but she insisted, and that was the end of it. Now we share everything: bills, dinners, music, arguments, and late-night coffee truces. She turns to brew fresh tea, smiling softly.

“Ma petite, I’d miss you too if I had a granddaughter like that.”

I laugh quietly. She always knows how to melt the weight off a day.

“If I were your granddaughter, I’d already know every trend and be drinking martinis on your terrace,” I tease, hugging her shoulders. She gasps dramatically and spins, arms wide.

“You’re absolutely right, darling! I’d be the most fashionable grandmother in London!”

We laugh, and for a moment, everything feels simple again.Later, when the tea is gone and tomorrow’s plans fade into silence, I draw a bath. Hot water softens my skin, washing away the train’s fatigue. I dry off, slip into pajamas, smooth vanilla cream over my hands, and slide into bed. My phone screen glows. Thursday, September 11. Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. The thought makes me go still - even the rain outside seems to pause. I remember her laughter, her voice, her touch - all blurred now by time. A sad half-smile touches my face for a moment. I turn off the light, hug my pillow, and listen as the rain begins again - steady, endless - like life itself.