by Tangqing(Jennifer) Zhang
The apartment on the third floor still smelled faintly of Earl Grey and lavender—as it had for the past thirty years. Everything remained in its rightful place: picture frames dusted, doilies flattened beneath porcelain figurines, the bookshelf alphabetised, and the piano lid closed . Even the late autumn light filtering through the curtains fell in familiar patterns.
Mrs Eleanor Willson sat in her velvet armchair by the window, her back upright despite the ache deep in her ribs. The pain had grown more insistent lately, sharp like glass against bone. She turned 80 last month. Now her body moved slower, resisted her once-effortless routines, and tomorrow, she would leave this place—her home—and move into a hospital care suite. The specialists at Brisbane Royal Women’s Hospital had called it urgent.
Across the living room, the family photographs on the mantle caught the last light of the afternoon, glowing as if the light came from within. Her son, Henry, grinned beside his wife, crow’s feet etched like parentheses to his smile. Her daughter, Alice—forever the artist—held her sketchpad and her youngest child like twin treasures. The grandchildren, all five, frozen in time with gap-toothed smiles and sticky fingers, one of whom had drawn the crayon rainbow still taped proudly to the fridge.
Eleanor’s gaze moved slowly across the room. Under the radiator were a pair of worn slippers. A chipped teacup—still part of the china set Henry had given her for Christmas—had been knocked against the sink by a fit of laughter. On the sofa, an embroidered cushion read, in faded but still brilliant fashion, ‘Love is a cup of warm tea.’
She reached out to the side table and picked up the silver hairbrush, its handle warm from the afternoon sun. She had brushed Alice’s hair with it the morning of her wedding. She had used it for Henry, toowhen he was a toddler, fussing and twisting away from her, refusing to let anyone else touch his curls.
Everything here told a story. Every object bore witness.
There was a knock—light, almost shy.
“Mrs Willson?” A voice called softly through the door. “It’s Leila from St. Martin’s. May I come in?”
Eleanor hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Yes, dear. Come in.”
The door creaked open. Leila, the young caregiver from the hospital’s transition team, stepped in with a kind expression and a clipboard held to her chest. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, and she wore the faint smell of antiseptic.
“I just wanted to check how you’re feeling about tomorrow,” Leila said gently. “Is there anything you need tonight?”
Eleanor shook her head slowly. “No. Thank you. I’ve packed what I need.”
Her voice was soft but steady.
Leila glanced around the room briefly pausing on the piano and the rainbow drawing on the fridge. “This is a beautiful home. It must hold a lot of memories.”
“It does,” Eleanor replied. “Too many to pack into a suitcase.”
They shared a quiet smile.
Leila gave a small nod and stepped back toward the door. “I’ll leave you to rest then. Just press the buzzer if you need anything.”
After she left, the silence returned, thick and unbroken. Eleanor leaned her head back against the chair, closing her eyes.
A notification lit up her phone.
“Hi Ms Eleanor, it’s time to take your medicine.” The automated voice said.
She muted it and turned the phone face down.
Then, slowly, with the care of someone folding the corner of a beloved page, she rose from the chair. She walked through each room, touching door frames, trailing her fingers across polished wood, whispering silent farewells. Her steps echoed slightly louder than usual.
In the hallway, she paused before closing the bedroom door. Her reflection wavered in the hallway mirror—silver hair pinned neatly, eyes still bright despite the ache beneath them. She offered herself a small, almost amused nod. Then she reached for the light switch.
She turned it off.
The apartment, at last, lay still.
“Goodnight,” she whispered. “My lovely home. I hope I’ll come back soon.”
