From Scratch
When he returned, no one was there to greet him. No flowers, no reprimands. No questions, no embraces. Just silence—thick and suffocating, as if he hadn’t been gone for five years but had merely stepped out for cigarettes and forgotten to come back. His absence wasn’t a wound; it was a yawning void the city hadn’t even noticed.
The stairwell was the same, but the door to his flat had been repainted—faded blue swapped for a cold, indifferent grey, as though someone had tried to erase him. New neighbours. New locks. The letterbox hung crooked, its rusted slit gaping like a half-hearted break-in. He slid the key in. The lock clicked grudgingly, like an old joint, resisting before giving way.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and something forgotten, as if memories had seeped into the floorboards. He sank onto the sagging sofa, trailing his fingers across the fabric—dust clung to his skin, leaving a smudge like a fingerprint on a lost photograph. In that mark, there was more life than in the words “I’m back.” Because home no longer existed—he’d have to build it anew.
He hadn’t been here in fifteen hundred days. First, prison. Then, the struggle to stand on his own feet. The last months—no relapses. No slipping back. Letters rarely came. Not from family, not from old mates. Strangely, it was freeing: no waiting, no hoping, no explaining. The worst thing wasn’t the past—it was the hollowness of days no one cared about.
The kettle still stood on the counter. Battered, lid cracked, but functional. He lit the stove, filled it with water. The stream ran murky, tinged with rust, as if nursing some old grudge. The pipes groaned, whispering secrets long buried. He wrenched the window open. Cold air slithered in, sharp and unwelcome, but undeniably real. He breathed deep. Not because he wanted to. Because it was the first step in learning how to breathe again.
In the wardrobe, an old jacket hung—sun-bleached and reeking of damp and time. He pulled it on and stepped into the courtyard. Walked slowly, as if afraid to startle himself. His fingers clenched in his pockets—not from the chill, but from the tension coiled inside. The city was unchanged: the same cracks in the pavement, the same peeling walls. Yet he saw it as an alien planet. With every step, something inside him stirred, gathering itself piece by fractured piece.
At the bus stop, a woman waited with a boy. The boy stared, unblinking. He offered a faint, hesitant smile. The boy frowned, hid behind his mother, then peeked out again. That tiny glance was enough—a spark flickered in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, something was still possible.
He bought bread, milk, and a box of matches. Simple things—proof he could start small. The shopkeeper rang them up without a word but looked at him. Not with scorn, but emptiness—as if he were a shadow the light had skipped over. That cut deeper than outright disdain.
Back home, he sat at the table, tore off a chunk of bread, poured milk into a chipped mug. Ate slowly, savouring each bite as if relearning not just how to eat, but how to live. Listened to the silence, the clink of the spoon, the hum of the world outside. Then he stood before the mirror. Studied his reflection like a stranger he’d have to get to know. Smiled. Awkwardly, but honestly. The first thing he’d done purely for himself.
At dawn, he rose at five. Scrubbed the floors till they gleamed, the bristles crunching like he was scouring away the past. Went to the market. Bought a hammer and nails. Knocked on the neighbour’s door—offered to fix a shelf. Spoke softly, almost a whisper, but with quiet dignity, like a man who didn’t just want to exist, but to matter.
“Who are you?” she asked, squinting as if trying to place him.
“I lived here once. Starting again,” he said, eyes lowered but not evasive.
She paused, then let him in. The flat smelled of stew and old paper. The shelf in the hall listed dangerously.
He tightened the screws, wiped his hands on a rag. “Anything else need fixing? Squeaky window? Faulty socket?”
She studied him, then fetched a lightbulb. “If it’s no trouble… My daughter keeps saying she’ll drop by, but you know how it is.”
He screwed it in. Light spilled across the room, warm and sudden, like life returning.
“Ta,” she said. A beat. “You… alright?”
He shrugged, almost smiled. “Learning. From scratch. Not quite from nothing, but near enough.”
She nodded, as if she understood more than he’d said.
That evening, he sat by the window. Watched teenagers kick a ball. An old woman scattering crumbs for sparrows. A couple tangled under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The light across the way flicking off, then on again—someone up for a cuppa.
Just like everyone else.
He pushed the window wider. Took in the courtyard—the lamp casting long shadows on wet tarmac, two smokers huddled by the steps, a silhouette moving behind a curtain. Maybe a woman putting the kettle on, or just someone’s ordinary evening.
He watched until the cold bit through his jacket, then finally shut the pane. Lay down to sleep—for once, without gritted teeth, without the weight in his chest, without dreading tomorrow. Because he’d realised: if you start with bread, a lightbulb, a single step—there’s a chance. Fragile. But real. And if the chance is real, then maybe he is too.
