Margaret clutched a faded photo-album, its pages worn from years of gentle handling. Each snapshot captured her late daughter, Emily, in moments that felt both vivid and cruelly distant—her cheeky grin at a school play, her twirl in a summer dress, her thoughtful gaze over a book. Five years had passed since Emily’s death, yet the grief clung to Margaret like damp mist over the Yorkshire moors. The pain hadn’t dulled. It lingered, sharp and unyielding.
Her cottage sat on the edge of Hawthorne Vale, a quiet village where stone walls and hedgerows framed narrow lanes. The house, much like Margaret, bore the marks of time, creaking floorboards, peeling paint, a roof that groaned under heavy rain. She lived alone, her world shrinking to these four walls.
Nights were the hardest. Tears soaked her pillow as memories of Emily flooded back, her laughter echoing in the silence. The village carried on, but Margaret felt forgotten, tethered only to her sorrow.
After losing her husband Tom, there was no one left to share her days. They’d had no other children, and her siblings were scattered across Manchester too far for regular visits. Years ago she and Tom had left the city for Hawthorne Vale, chasing a simpler life.
Emily had been their pride, a bright spark who turned heads wherever she went. With her auburn hair and quick wit, she drew admiring glances from local lads at the village fate. But Emily’s heart wasn’t set on romance.
She had bigger dreams. She longed to study journalism at a university in London, to chase stories that mattered. Margaret beamed with pride at her ambition, encouraging her to reach beyond the confines of their small village.
«‘You’re meant for more than this place, lass,’ she’d say, tucking a strand of hair behind Emily’s ear. When Emily finished school, her dreams took flight. She earned a place at a London university, throwing herself into her studies.
Despite the distance, she visited often, her weekend trips home filled with chatter about lectures and new friends. Margaret flipped through the album, pausing at a photo of Emily graduating, her mortarboard slightly askew. That day they’d celebrated with fish and chips in Whitby, Emily’s laughter mingling with the gulls’ cries.
But then came James, her fiancé, a kind-eyed young man who’d won Margaret’s approval over tea and biscuits. They’d planned a spring wedding, saving every penny. Margaret chipped in what she could from her modest savings, dreaming of the day she’d see Emily walk down the aisle.
But fate had other plans. One autumn evening, Emily stepped off the bus from a weekend visit, crossing the road by the village green. A car tore through, striking her down.
The driver didn’t stop, leaving her broken on the tarmac. Villagers rushed to help, calling an ambulance, but it was too late. Emily was gone.
Margaret kept her scarf, its faint scent of lavender the only fragile link to her daughter. Margaret’s world had crumbled that autumn evening when Emily was taken from her. The village green, once a place of summer fates and laughter, now held only the memory of screeching tyres and flashing blue lights.
The driver who’d struck Emily had sped off into the night, leaving chaos in his wake. Neighbours had crowded around, phones pressed to ears, voices trembling as they called for help. The ambulance arrived too late.