The old curmudgeon handed me a comb, and what followed turned my whole life upside down.
It sat on the top shelf of the little haberdashery on the far end of the High Street, as if it had been waiting for me alone. A shaft of light from the fluorescent tube caught its handle and made it flash with a cold, silvery glow. I froze, rooted to the spot. It was just a comb, yet unlike any Id ever seena smooth, mattemetal grip, its teeth not ordinary at all but shimmering with every colour of the rainbow, as though carved from sunlit ice.
I reached out, but my fingers stopped a breath away. A knot of doubt tightened inside. Why? a harsh inner voice demanded. You already have a perfectly decent comb at home. Dont waste your money.
I sighed and pulled my hand back, though my eyes could not leave the object. It seemed alive, hypnotic. I imagined it sliding through my wild, ginger curls and a smile slipped onto my face.
Miss! A fine comb, take it! the shop assistant called, her grin wide.
Everythings sold out, loveonly two left. Its not just pretty, its practical; it wont tangle, she assured.
Im just looking, I muttered, stepping back. I have my own, its good enough.
I turned away, avoiding the shelf, and headed for the door. A small mirror by the exit caught a glimpse of my untamed hair peeking from under my hat. The foolish urge surged again.
No, I told myself firmly. I must be prudent. I must learn to say no to unnecessary things.
I stepped onto the porch, the February wind biting my cheeks. The chill cleared the fog of my strange reverie. Down the slick lane trudged a familiar silhouetteAlbert Grim Whitmore.
Everyone in the borough knew him as Grim, though his given name was Albert Whitmore. An elderly man whose icy stare made children scurry, who never spoke unless forced, and whose gaze could scorch a passerby.
Today he wore his usual battered rabbitfur coat, a threadbare overcoat, and scuffed boots. The only incongruous item was a sleek grey satchel slung over his shoulder, its flap embroidered with an exotic pearlwhite blossom, clearly sewn with care.
Our eyes met. In his faded blue eyes flickered a spark of ancient irritation. I darted my gaze to the shop window, pretending to examine something, while my heart hammered in my throat.
Hey! You up there! a hoarse, wheezy voice called close by. I pretended not to hear.
Hey! Im speaking to you! the voice grew louder.
I turned slowly. Albert, creaking, climbed the steps of the porch and stared straight at me.
Youre from this block, arent you? he asked, pushing his shaggy, silverstreaked eyebrows up with a finger. A scent of peppermint and old wool drifted from him.
I felt my cheeks flush. I uh, yes, I suppose, I stammered, feeling foolish.
Supposethat a yes or a no? he pressed, his eyes lighting with a familiar, mischievous fire.
I only managed a mute nod, bracing for a quarrel.
He drew a long breath, and his anger softened into a weary resignation.
Help me pick a present then, he croaked. Youre a lass. My granddaughter Lucy is a girl. I havent seen her in years. I need something for her.
A flash of his old, animal desperation flickered across his gaze.
What if you asked Lucy herself? Maybe a phone call? I suggested cautiously. I dont know what shed like
I cant ask, he snapped, his face hardening again. It just happened. Will you help? Choose something?
The memory of the strange comb surged backan otherworldly, beautiful thing, like that satchel. It would be perfect.
Fear still clung to me, but something inside trembled. I reached out and brushed his sleeve.
Come on, I whispered. I saw something that might suit.
We walked back into the shop, my fingers feeling the rough weave of his coat. He leaned on a cane I hadnt noticed before. We stopped before the same counter.
Here, I pointed at the glittering object. I think this could please a young lady.
Alberts gnarled hand hovered over the comb, his weathered fingers turning it over. He didnt look at it, but through it, as if recalling a distant memory. In that instant he was no longer Grim, but a tired, lonely old man.
Only two left, the shop assistants voice echoed, they sell fast.
He lifted his eyes to mine; something shifted in his blue stare. A corner of his mouth twitched into a thin grin, like a pirate recalling buried treasure.
Ill take both, he declared, pulling a worn leather wallet from the inside of his coat.
I wanted to protest, but the words caught in my throat. He counted the pounds with meticulous care, as if each penny mattered.
The assistant wrapped the two combs in tiny paper bags. Albert slipped one into his exotic satchel, handling it as if it were a fragile relic, and handed the other to me.
Take it, he said, his hand steady.
I recoiled as if hed offered a hot coal.
No, I dont its for Lucy I could buy it myself
Take it, he insisted, his voice firm, as a gift from me, for you and Lucy. You helped me today. Thank you.
His tone carried a hint of hopelessness that lingered from his talk of Lucy. I accepted the comb, its plastic surprisingly warm, almost alive.
We stepped out of the shop, the cold February wind snapping us back to reality. Below, the slick road carried Alberts familiar silhouette, shuffling slowly.
Thank you, I managed, the words breaking through my silence. Its lovely. Ill use it.
He only nodded, eyes still on the road.
Lucy will be pleased, I added softly.
He sighed heavily, a sound that seemed to come from the soles of his boots.
Im not sure shell be pleased, he rasped. My daughter Jane she wont give it to her. She thinks Im a burden.
He fell silent, and we walked a few more steps in oppressive quiet.
She blames me for her mothers death, he suddenly burst, as if a dam had broken. Olivia died in my arms. They said an appendix burst, then peritonitis. The young doctor got it wrong. I watched her slip away, and I still blame myself.
He wiped his brow with his sleeve. My daughter came home after it all. We never spoke again. Lucy tried to call, but Jane shut her out. Ive been alone for five years.
We reached his front door. He stopped, turned to me, his face twisted with silent agony.
Please, dear, dont turn away. Let me show you what Olivia made, he pleaded, his voice a mix of hope and desperation.
I nodded, fear melting into a strange resolve.
He opened the heavy iron door, and a stale, motionless air greeted usno musty rot, but the scent of time paused, dried herbs, old paper, and a faint trace of perfume that lingered like a memory.
Inside, the flat was frozen like a photograph. Polished floors reflected immaculate lace napkins on every surface. A battered gramophone stood on a mantel, its horn towering, beside a stack of records. Geraniums in pots shone on the windowsill, their leaves glistening as if just wiped clean.
On the back of a chair hung a pink, daisypatterned nightgown, as if its owner had just slipped it off. On the vanity lay a neat pile of rings, a loose strand of pearl, an open powder box, and a dried mascara tube.
It was less a home than a museum of a day five years ago, preserved in amber.
Albert shed his coat, hanging it beside the nightgown, then moved to the kitchen with a slower, almost ritualistic grace.
Sit, love, Ill put the kettle on. Olivia liked tea with jam. We have our own blackcurrant preserve, he said, his voice softer, as if speaking in a library.
I perched on the edge of a chair, careful not to disturb the fragile tableau. My eyes fell on a bundle of envelopes tied with twine on the windowsill. Each bore the same shaky, elderly script: To Jane, my daughter, stamped Return to sender addressee deceased. They had never been opened. The cruelty of that silence struck me hard.
Albert returned with two delicate teacups, a tiny teapot, and a pot of jam.
The tea smelled of mint and linden. I tasted it, surprised by a burst of sweet jam.
Its wonderful, I said honestly. Ive never had anything like it.
He smiled sadly, eyes wandering.
Olivia could do everythingsew, knit, make the garden blossom. She even crafted bags from leftover cloth. She always told me not to forget her when I went to the shop.
He fell silent, the room filling with his unspoken grief. I finished the jam, then, on a sudden impulse, asked,
Mr. Whitmore, could you teach me how to make it? My mother never gets it right.
His eyes lit, as if Id said something vital.
Ill show you, he replied. It isnt hard.
He began to tell storiesnot of sorrow, but of life: planting carrots with Olivia, her scolding when I bought too much fabric, wandering the woods for mushrooms. As he spoke, the specter of Grim dissolved, replaced by a solitary man who had stored a lifetime of love and now needed to share it.
Leaving, I glanced again at the unopened letters. A resolve hardened within me.
May I come back for the recipe? I asked at the door.
Come any time, love. Ill even tell you about a clever zucchini jam, he answered, his eyes finally warm.
I stepped out onto the stairwell, the door closing softly behind me, sealing him once more in his quiet museum. I descended to my flat, slipped the comb from my pocket onto the kitchen table. It glimmered with its rainbow teeth, no longer just a trinket but a key that had unlocked a strangers tragedy.
I sat, opened my notebook, and began to write.
Dear Jane, we have never met. My name is Emily, your fathers neighbour. Please read this letter to the end
Outside, night fell. The wind whispered through the lane as I put the final punctuation on the page, feeling the weight of responsibility and, oddly, a steady confidence.
Three weeks passed. The letter went out, and nothing returnedno call, no reply, only a silence as heavy as Alberts flat.
I visited him often afterward, sharing tea and jam, listening as he recounted more of his past. Each time I left, his gaze grew less wary, more grateful.
One afternoon, returning from the university, I saw a familiar crowd of local womenour oldtimersgabbing near the communal bench where Albert usually sat. He wasnt there, but they whispered:
Hes a proper grump, they say. Never got along with anyone. Heard he even cursed his own wife
I froze, my heart pounding. The words of the crowd hit me like a cold slap.
You talking about Albert Whitmore? I asked, voice louder than I intended.
A feisty woman replied, What do you know? Hes always shouting, never had a friend
I pressed, Did he argue with the kids on the playground when his wife was dying? Did anyone tell you what he went through?
Their faces fell, eyes darting. They muttered about young folk meddling and scattered. I stood alone, knees trembling, but a strange calm settled within me.
The next Saturday, I awoke to a soft rustle outside. A sleek foreign car idled by the building, and a tall woman in an elegant coat stepped out. Beside her, a young girl with long blond hair rushed forward and embraced Albert, who stood there in a thin vest, his face pale and bewildered.
The womanJanemoved toward him, hand resting on his shoulder. He released his granddaughter and hugged his daughter, the three of them forming a fragile knot. Tears streamed down Alberts cheeks, loud and raw, as he whispered, Lucy my girl look how youve grown.
I slipped away, not wanting to watch. The moment felt theirs alone, a release of years of dammed sorrow.
In the mirror of the hallway I saw my own reflectionmessy hair, sleepy eyesbut a spark in them. I lifted the silver comb, its rainbow teeth catching the morning light. I ran it through my curls; the plastic was cool, but an inner heat spread through my scalp, not from the comb itself but from the heartbeat of anothers joy.
It was warmth born of shared happiness, of understanding that a simple object, a few words, a letterany of them could become the fragile bridge spanning a chasm between broken hearts.
Days later I watched from my window as Albert, looking younger, leaned on Janes arm while Lucy chatted animatedly on the other side. Their laughter filled the street, a picture of peace so complete it seemed the five years of separation had simply evaporated.
I felt a quiet unease, knowing my help had been hidden, fearing a glance from Jane might carry accusation. I kept to the shadows, slipping in and out of the building.
One evening, after buying a cup of tea, I found Jane and Lucy standing at my doorstep, an unexpected sight.
Emily? Jane asked, her voice soft, eyes rimmed with tears.
I only managed a nod.
We wanted to thank you, Lucy said, smiling brightly. For the letter. For everything.
Jane wiped a stray tear. I was so angry, so lost. I blamed Albert for everything. Then you reminded me I still had a father, that his pain wasnt greater than mine.
She produced a small parcel wrapped in the same grey fabric with the pearl blossom. This is from Albert, from us, she said, handing it to me.
I opened it to find the second comb, identical to the one I kept, with a note in Alberts firm hand: Thank you for helping us find each other. May you have all the good things. Albert, Jane and Lucy.
I pressed the cool plastic into my palm, feeling two keys that had opened the same door.
That night, sitting by my window as the streetlights flickered on, I thought how strange life could be. One random encounter, one seemingly useless trinket, one timely wordany could change everything, shatter walls of misunderstanding, and bring light back.
I placed both combs in a little box, the first wrapped again in that embroidered cloth, as a keepsake. The second I lifted to my hair, feeling the same inner warmth flow outward. It was hopes heat, the kind that thawed a lonely old mans heart, melted the ice in his familys souls, and now lived inside me.
I looked into the dark glass, saw my own reflectiondishevelled, eyes bright, ginger hair wild. I smiled. Everything felt right.
