Short Story: A Familiar Face

Here's a fun little vignette while I work on some of my longer, ongoing projects. I wanted to try and explore the genre with something that doesn't neatly wrap up in the end, but still leaves the reader satisfied with the story.

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Marie shuffled along the damp London streets, brow furrowed in concentration. A hundred more steps until the next turn. In her left hand, she held a long, thin wooden cane which she tapped against each storm drain and lamp post, counting them to make sure she would not miss her turn. Her right hand was poised, ready to catch her if she lost balance. People muttered wordless apologies as they passed by and stepped out of her path.

The sky wept icy rain. Marie tipped her head back and stared at the sky, flinching as raindrops struck her face. Her eyes registered sunlight among a shifting expanse of black and grey. But she saw no overcast sky, no rumbling clouds, no birds flitting from roof to roof seeking shelter from the oncoming downpour. All she saw was light and shadow, shapeless and unchanging. Marie sighed, tightened her grip on the cane, and continued walking.

Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Marie took a deep breath and turned onto the crowded main road. The tumult of everyday life assaulted her senses. The delicious aroma of fresh bread and pastries wafting from the bakery was not quite strong enough to cover the metallic, greasy tang of the city. Noise echoed through the street, a living, roaring monster composed of the patter of raindrops and human voices and the roar of car engines.

A heavy figure slammed into her. Marie stumbled and tripped over her own feet as she tried to regain balance while grasping her cane. Before she could fall, a pair of hands grabbed her shoulders.

“Apologies, Miss!” said a frail, husky voice. Marie imagined an old man standing before her, smiling at her with kind eyes.

“That’s okay,” she murmured.

“I think you may have dropped this. Take good care of it, now.” Marie felt the man’s wrinkled hands push a round object into her palm.

She turned it over in her hands, feeling the worn, stony surface. There were no divots, bumps, or ridges on it. Was it just a plain old pebble? “Um, excuse me, sir... this isn’t mine.” She heard no response.

Marie sighed. She clenched her fist, about to throw the stone away, when a peculiar tingling started in her skull. Her eyes felt like they had been encased in ice, cold fire spreading through them. She doubled over from the strange sensation, which while alien and uncomfortable, wasn’t very painful. She dropped her cane, rubbing at her eyes to relieve the itch.

As quickly as it had started, the burning vanished. The oppressive darkness that had occupied Marie’s vision for over a decade shifted and faded as pinpricks of light flickered through it. She froze. She had released the fragile hope that her sight would return long ago. Now, as the shadows began to solidify into shapes, a childish sense of wonder came over her. Her fingers gripped the pebble, knuckles paling at the thought of letting go. She didn’t dare move or even breathe too deeply in fear that it would shatter the spell weaving itself over her eyes.

Her surroundings took shape slowly. She drank in the world, her eyes lapping greedily at the vibrant explosion of colour and life that she had forgotten.

Pale spots of sunlight dappled the streets and buildings, filtering through dark grey clouds. She caught her breath at how light bounced off metal and glass, making the world look alive. And the people! Children ran about the roads with a ball in their hands. Shoppers peeked through windows, considering a new dress or a pair of shoes. Men and women huddled under parasols arm in arm, faces turned towards each other. She saw beautiful clothes, glittering jewellery, coiffed, dyed hair, and rouged cheeks and lips. A pang shot through Marie’s heart as she realized how much she had missed people’s wonderful, expressive faces in her black world of disembodied voices.

Marie brought the stone up to eye level, turning it over in her palms. It was smooth and speckled with shades of grey, but there was nothing noteworthy about it. In fact, it looked like a pebble that someone had grabbed from the banks of the river Thames. How had something so ordinary changed her life in a matter of seconds? She craned her neck and scanned the crowd, searching in vain for a pair of kind eyes or a knowing smile. The passersby gave her a wide berth as she stood on the sidewalk, clothes drenched with rain.

As Marie searched, she glimpsed something in a shop window that she had never thought she would see again. Her breath caught in her throat. Her cane lay forgotten on the sidewalk. She stumbled and swayed, awkward without the cane and unfamiliar with the sensation of walking with sight. She caught herself on the window ledge. Tears slid down her cheek and mingled with the cool raindrops.

For the first time in ten years, Marie saw her face.

She stared at her distorted reflection in the polished glass. It was a familiar face. She had the same nut brown hair falling in waves to her waist, the same starburst pattern of freckles covering her face. She smiled through her tears and saw the small gap between her front teeth she was expecting. The arches of her cheekbones, her strong chin, and the pale curve of her neck looked exactly how she had imagined them countless times before. But something was different. As Marie continued to stare at her own face, she saw her bloodshot eyes. She had green eyes– her mother always simpered about how her pretty green eyes were the highlight of her face, the irony of which was never lost on Marie– but her eyes were green no longer. Instead, they were the same curious grey shade as the stone clutched in her hands.

“Thank you,” Marie whispered into her palm. “Thank you.”