The old curmudgeon handed me a comb. What followed turned my whole life upside down.
It lay on a shelf in the farcorner of a little shop in a back street of London, as if it had been waiting for me. A shaft of light from a fluorescent tube caught it, and it flared with a cold, silvery gleam. I froze, rooted to the spot. It was only a comb, yet unlike any I had ever seen. Its handle was smooth, faceted metal, mattefinished, and the teeth were not merely teeth. They shimmered with every colour of the rainbow, as if carved from ice where the sun was dancing.
I reached out, but my fingers halted a centimetre from the surface. Inside me something tightened with contradiction. Why? a stern inner voice asked. You already have a fine, ordinary, workhorse comb at home. Money for nothing. Foolishness.
I sighed and pulled my hand back, yet I could not tear my eyes away. The object seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it gliding through my unruly auburn strands, and a smile slipped onto my face.
Miss! A lovely comb, take it! I jumped. A shop assistant came up to the counter, grinning from ear to ear.
Everyones bought them already, honestly. Only two left. Not only beautiful but very practicalwont tangle hair, she assured.
Im just looking, I muttered, stepping back. Ive got my own, its good enough.
I turned away, avoiding the shelf, and headed for the exit. A small mirror hung on the way. I glancedbright curls jutted from under my hat. The silly urge rose again.
No, I said firmly to myself. Be frugal. Learn to refuse the unnecessary.
I stepped onto the doorstep, pressing my face into the cold February wind. The air snapped me out of the strange trance. Down the slick road shuffled a familiar silhouette: Harold Grim.
His real name was Peter Timothy, but in our neighbourhood everyone called him by that grim nickname. An elderly man whose presence was as cold and distant as ice, children gave him a wide berth. He never spoke to anyone; if you met his gaze it was a heavy, scorching stare that made passersby look away quickly.
He wore his usual ragged rabbit coat, a threadbare coat, an old halffur coat, and shabby boots. Yet one detail clashed with his sullen imagea crossbody bag. Not a battered rucksack or a simple tote, but an elegant greyfabric bag, its flap embroidered with an exotic motherofpearl flower, clearly sewn with love and great skill.
I stared at that otherworldly beauty and could not look away. Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes flickered a spark of ancient, longstanding irritation. I snapped my gaze to the shop window, pretending to examine something, and my heart thudded in my throat.
Hey! You up there! A hoarse, strained voice sounded right beside me. I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im talking to you! The voice grew louder.
I turned slowly. Harold Grim, creaking, climbed the steps of the porch, his gaze fixed on me.
Youre from our house, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, silvergrey eyebrows up with a finger. He smelled of mint and old clothes.
Heat rose to my cheeks. I uh yes, I squeaked, feeling like a complete fool.
Uh yesdoes that mean yes or no? he pressed, and familiar angry glints danced in his eyes.
I merely nodded, bracing for a quarrel. Was I not to his liking? Had I looked wrong?
He drew a heavy breath, and suddenly his stare softened. Anger slipped away, replaced by a strange, weary fatigue.
Help me then, will you? Choose a little gift. Youre a girl, and I have a granddaughter named Ethel. She lives far away, I havent seen her in ages. My own Ethel he rasped, voice almost a whisper.
It seemed, in the corners of his eyes, that a flash of something elsenot malice but a raw, animal desperationhad appeared.
But perhaps you should ask Ethel herself what she wants? Even by phone? I suggested cautiously. I just dont know what shed like
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening for a heartbeat. Thats how it is. So, will you help? Choose something?
And then it hit me againthe very comb. That same uncanny, beautiful thing, like the bag. It would be perfect.
Fear lingered, yet something shivered inside. I even dared to brush his sleeve.
Lets go, I whispered. I saw something. I think its what you need.
I led him back to the shop, feeling the rough fabric of his halffur coat under my fingers. He walked in silence, leaning heavily on a cane I had never noticed before. We stood again at the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think this might please a girl.
Peter Timothy slowly, as if with effort, extended his hand and took the comb. He turned it over in his large, deeply lined fingers, spots of age dotted across them. He wasnt looking at the comb but through it, as if peering into some distant memory. In that instant he was no longer Grim. He was just a very tired, very lonely old man.
There are only two left, the shop assistants voice echoed again. Good combs sell fast.
The old man fixed his gaze on me, and something trembled in his blue eyes. The corners of his mouth quivered into a faint smile, and he resembled an ancient, weary sailor who had just recalled a hidden treasure.
Ill take both, please, he said suddenly firm, and slowly, unhurriedly, reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out a battered leather wallet.
I wanted to protest it was too much, but the words stuck in my throat. He counted the notes, meticulous as a man who knows the value of every penny.
The shopkeeper wrapped the combs in two small paper bags. One he placed gently into Peters exotic bag with the pearlblossom, handling it as if cradling something fragile and precious. He opened the second bag, took out a comb and handed it to me.
Here, take it.
I recoiled as if hed offered me a hot coal.
What? No, why? Its for your granddaughter I could have it myself if I wanted
Take it, he urged, his hand unmoving, his stare now stern, almost harsh. Its a little giftfrom me. For you and for Ethel. Ill try to send her a parcel, maybe shell accept And you you helped me today. Thank you.
In his voice the same notes of hopelessness returned when he spoke of his granddaughter. I stood mute, speechless, and took the comb. The plastic was surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We left the shop and walked silently toward my house. I clutched the bag as if fearing it would fly away. In my head rang the question: Why? Why did he do it? No answer came.
The silence between us at first was taut, then slowly softened. He breathed heavily up the hill, that sound the only thing breaking the streets hush. I stole a glance at his shoulders, usually stiff, now seemed weighed down by an invisible burden.
Thank you, I finally managed, my voice breaking. Its beautiful. Ill use it
He merely nodded, not looking at me.
Ethel will be pleased, I think, I added timidly.
He slowed, exhaled a heavy sigh that seemed to rise from the depths of his old boots.
I dont know if shell be pleased, he rasped. I dont know if shell ever get it. My daughter, Jane she wont give it away. She wont want anything from me.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in oppressive quiet.
She blames me, he burst out, as if a dam had broken. Blames me for not saving her mother. Poor Ol
His voice cracked, and he swallowed, pretending to choke.
She died in my arms. They said it was appendicitis, then peritonitis. The young doctor messed up Two precious days lost. He gave her pills for a stomach, not surgery. I trusted him
He wiped his face with his sleeve, and I pretended not to notice the gestures he made with his fingers.
My daughter came back only after everything happened. Five years have passed since. We never spoke. My granddaughter tried to call, but Jane forbade it. She loved her mother. And I I loved them. My life ended that day.
We reached my doorstep. He stopped at the entrance, turned to me. His face was twisted in a mute agony that made my own chest tighten.
You, dear, dont turn away. Come inside. Ill show you what Ol made. Everythings as it was. Come, will you? He looked at me with such pleading, such begging for human help, that refusal felt impossible.
I nodded silently. Fear vanished, replaced by a bitter understanding of his longing. I followed him up the stairs, the warm glass comb hidden in my pocket, feeling anothers huge sorrow seep into my own.
He opened a heavy iron door, and a strange, still air brushed my skin. It wasnt stale but filled with stopped time, dry herbs, old paper and a faint scent of perfume that had almost faded away.
Inside, the flat was not just tidyit was frozen like a photograph. Floors shone, lace napkins lay immaculate on every surface. A vintage gramophone with a massive horn stood against a wall, beside a neat stack of records. Geraniums bloomed on the windowsills, their leaves glinting as if just dusted.
But what struck me most was the chairs back, draped with a pink ladies dressing gown in tiny flowers, as if the owner had just taken it off to change. On the vanity sat a small pile of rings, a strand of short pearls, an open powder box, and a dried mascara.
It was a museum, a shrine of memory, paused five years ago.
Peter slipped off his halffur coat and hung it beside the pink robe. He moved toward the kitchen, his motions smoother, almost ritualistic.
Sit, love, Ill put the kettle on. Ol liked tea with jam. We have our own cherry jam, his voice drifted from the kitchen, softer, as if in a library.
I lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, afraid to disturb the fragile harmony. My eyes fell on a small table by the window. A stack of envelopes, tied neatly with twine, lay there. I leaned in. Each bore a firm, aged script: To my dear Jane, and a stamp reading Return to sender. Recipient deceased. They had never been opened. The cruelty of that silence punched my heart.
Here, try, Peter returned, bearing a tray with two antique teacups patterned with flowers, a tiny teapot, and jars of jam.
I lifted a cup. The tea smelled of mint and lime. The jam was indeed extraordinary.
Delicious, I said sincerely. Ive never tasted anything like it.
He gave a sad smile, looking past me.
She was a jackofalltrades. Sewed, knitted, kept the garden thriving. She made bags like this, from leftover cloth. She loved this bag, he nodded toward his pearlflower bag, she told me not to forget it when I went to the shop.
He fell silent, and his silence filled the room with his mute grief. I finished the jam, and, on a sudden impulse, asked,
Peter, could you teach me how to make it? My mother cant manage it, she never gets it right.
He looked at me as if Id said something vital. His eyes brightened.
Ill teach you, of course. Its not hard.
He began to speak, not of sorrow but of life. Of how he and Ol planted the garden, how she scolded him when he brought too much cloth for her crafts, how they walked together into the woods for mushrooms. He talked, I listened, and the spectre of the old Grim finally dissolved, replaced by an ordinary lonely man who had guarded love for decades and now didnt know where to place it.
Leaving, I glanced again at the pile of unopened letters. The idea that had sparked in the shop formed into a firm, unshakable resolve. I had no right not to act.
May I come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come, darling, do come back, he called from the doorway, his eyes for once warm rather than icy. Ill tell you about zucchini jam. Its a trick.
I stepped onto the stairwell, the door closing behind me, sealing him again in his museum of silence and memory. I descended to my flat, entered my room, and finally allowed myself a breath.
From my pocket I pulled out the comb, laying it on the table. It still glittered with its rainbow teeth, no longer merely a pretty trinket but a keya key that had opened a door into anothers tragedy.
I sat at the desk, opened a notebook, and a pen. I could not write the whole letter at once; emotions overflowed. I managed the first lines, the most important:
Dear Jane, we have never met. My name is Mila, your fathers neighbour. I beg you to find the strength to read this letter to the end
Outside, night fell completely. I wrote, choosing words, erasing, rewriting, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility and a strange confidence that I was doing the only possible thing.
Three weeks passed. Three weeks of silence. The letter was sent, and nothing returnedno call, no reply, not even a angry text. Only the same oppressive hush that filled Peters flat.
I visited him several times. We drank tea with jam, and he, revived, told me new details about his recipes. I pretended great interest, fearing his gaze might see deceit, the shadow of the secret I had stirred. Each departure, his look grew less wary, more grateful. I wondered if I had ruined anything, if my letter had only hardened his daughters heart.
One afternoon, returning from university, I saw a familiar scene by our buildings entrance. A cluster of middleaged women, our local aunties, chatted lively, pointing toward the bench where Peter usually sat. He was absent, but they continued, oblivious.
not for nothing they called him Grim. He fought with everyone, kept to himself. They say he even quarreled with his own wife
I stood rooted, blood rushing to my head. All that pain I had felt for him surged like a hot wave. I didnt think of consequences; I simply stepped forward.
They fell silent, staring at me with puzzled surprise.
Youre talking about Peter Timothy? I asked, my voice louder than the hallways hush.
Yes, one replied, what of him?
Did you know he that his wife died? I pressed, Hes been alone all these years, right?
They stared, then muttered about the youth meddling in others business and shuffled away.
I stood alone, breathing hard, knees trembling. The blood in my ears throbbed. I had said what needed saying.
A week passed without incident. Then Saturday arrived. I slept, and in the dream a strange noise rose from the courtyardnot childrens shouts but adult voices, laughter. I drew back the curtain.
In the yard, by the entrance, a dark foreign car, clearly not from around here, sat. Beside it stood a tall, slender woman in an elegant coat, speaking to someone. The buildings door swung open. Peter emerged, this time without his halffur coat, in just a vest, his face pale and bewildered. He stared at the woman, something breaking inside him. He froze, unable to move.
The womanJanestepped forward. She whispered something I could not hear. From the car a young woman with long, blond hair sprang out, lunging at the old man and wrapping her arms around his neck.
Granddad!
He clutched her, pressing her to his chest as if fearing she might be an illusion. His shoulders trembled. He weptnot the quiet, bitter tears of the porch, but a loud, raw wail, releasing five years of loneliness. He stroked her hair, murmuring something inaudible, his lips forming, Ethel my girl how youve grown
Jane placed a hand on his shoulder. He let go of the granddaughter and embraced his daughter. The three of them stood together, a knot of grey hair, elegant coat, and bright youth, the dam of grief finally collapsing.
I slipped away from the window, not wanting to be a spectator. It was their moment, their healing. A bright thing sang in my chest, a lightness.
I went to the mirror. It reflected medishevelled, sleepstained, eyes shining. My auburn hair stuck out in all directions. I picked up the silver comb with its rainbow teeth. It still sparkled in the morning light.
I ran it through my hairAs the comb glided through my tangled curls, a soft glow spread from my fingertips, stitching together the fractured memories of strangers into a single, luminous thread that bound us all.
