The Warmth of an Old Home
The front hall greeted Dorothy with the familiar scent of dampness, stewed potatoes, and cheap soap—an aroma that clings only to the old houses on the outskirts of a sleepy Yorkshire town, where time seems to pause, allowing life to unfold at its own quiet pace. The ceiling was low, its cracked paint peeling, and the flickering bulb above the stairs hesitated, as if unsure whether to keep illuminating this weary world.
Dorothy climbed slowly, clutching a bag of apples in one hand and an envelope of medical results in the other. Her fingers were stiff from the cold—and from fear. At each landing, she paused, gathering the strength for the next step. The stairs were worn smooth underfoot, their concrete edges softened by decades of shuffling feet. Three more flights, and she’d reach her floor. The same worn doormat would be waiting, the same heavy silence, the same question echoing in her mind: *What now?*
On the fourth floor, her neighbour Mrs. Whitaker sat on the landing, as she often did. Sharp-tongued yet kind-hearted, she fed stray cats and grumbled at anyone who passed. Spotting Dorothy, she narrowed her eyes.
“Out gallivanting again? Thought you’d be in hospital by now. Your grandson dropped by yesterday.”
“Just bringing apples,” Dorothy murmured. “Left in a hurry.”
“Always rushing, never stopping. Young ones these days—too busy for tea or a proper chat. My own daughter hardly remembers where I live. Work, work, work…” Mrs. Whitaker muttered, peering through the smudged window.
“They live differently,” Dorothy said softly. “As if they’re afraid to slow down.”
“Foolish,” the old woman huffed. “The best things happen in the quiet. But who listens to us?”
Dorothy didn’t reply. She simply nodded, as though afraid to break the fragile thread of conversation, then continued upward, stepping carefully, as if on thin ice.
The flat welcomed her with its own familiar scents—dust, old oak, and the faintest trace of lavender from freshly washed linens. The hallway floor was icy, but the bathroom tiles radiated warmth like the beating heart of the house. That warmth was the only thing that felt real anymore. Years ago, she and her husband had chosen those tiles. They’d argued, haggled at hardware shops, complained about prices, and in the end, they’d overspent—but laughed about it. He’d been gone two years now, yet she still turned on the heated floor. Here, in the bathroom, he lingered—perhaps in the memory of his morning shave, or in his toothbrush left untouched in the glass. She’d tried to put it away once, but couldn’t. It had returned to its place, a silent promise that he wasn’t truly gone.
Dorothy set the apples on the kitchen table and sank into a chair, catching her breath. Her gaze wandered—over the shelves, the curtains, the armchair by the window. Everything was in its place, yet the emptiness pressed down like winter’s chill. She tore open the envelope. The papers slid free, rustling as if alive. She pressed them to her chest, as if to still their trembling—or her own. She didn’t read them yet. First, she boiled the kettle, wiped invisible dust from the counter, checked the latch on the window. All ordinary things. But the kettle hummed louder than usual, as though echoing her unease. Then, at last, she turned to the papers.
The diagnosis was written clearly, in cold Latin, with an English translation beneath. The words cut like glass. The illness would take her slowly, piece by piece, as if someone were dimming the light inside her. Not yet. She still had time. That *still* was the most important word—fragile as frost on a windowpane. It warmed her more than the bathroom tiles ever could.
Dorothy slid down onto the bathroom floor, leaning against the wall. The heat seeped through her dressing gown like an old friend’s embrace. She didn’t shake, didn’t fall apart like they did in the films. She just sat, listening—to the murmur of pipes, the drip of the tap, the quiet creaks of the house. And she thought: *It’s good it’s winter.* Winter had its own peace, like a lullaby for the weary. Spring would have been unbearable—all that growth, straining toward the sun, pretending life was always beginning. But winter was a time to pause, to breathe, to simply *be.* To live without hurry. To say goodbye without rushing.
Her phone chirped from the other room. A text from her grandson: *Gran, stopping by Friday—fancy baking your apple crumble?*
Dorothy smiled. Her cheeks warmed slightly, as though brushed by a faint breeze. She stood, glanced in the mirror. Her hair was windswept, dark circles beneath her eyes—but her gaze was alive, like someone suddenly remembering why they still drew breath. She wiped the glass, as if clearing away a mist, as if making sure she was still there.
Then she walked to the kitchen, took the mince from the freezer, set it on a plate. Friday was days away, but—just in case. Just in case time slowed its steps. She picked up an onion, turned it in her hands as though weighing the future, then put it back. Morning was soon enough. The important thing was to be ready.
And even if time ran out, the important thing was that the house smelled of baking. That scent held everything: warmth, love, memory. And life—exactly as it was.
