We all keep little secrets tucked away, locked behind a key we hide from everyone – even from those closest to us. You’d think it would be nice if that key got lost somewhere, but is that really possible?

At seven o’clock in the evening, Emily, as she always does, walked her husband James to the front door, gave him a tight hug and a lingering kiss. She wished him a calm night on duty, free of emergencies and heavy cases. Seeing each other off like that has been a family ritual for years. They’ve been married for twenty‑nine years, practically knowing each other since childhood, and have raised three wonderful children – twin boys and a lovely daughter, Poppy. The kids are now grown, have families of their own, and visit often.

James and Emily still hold hands, exchange kisses, and embrace without shame, standing by the door waiting for each other’s return from work, instinctively matching each other’s steps, gait, even breath. Emily lingered a moment in the hallway; the apartment’s front door slammed shut with a creak behind James. She was left alone, save for their cat Whiskers.

Anyone who’s been happily married a long time knows it’s healthy to take a break from each other and be alone with one’s thoughts. As the saying goes, it never hurts to lay your cards out from ace to six, to tidy up dreams, feelings and wishes. A solitaire is an intellectual game that despises haste and chaos. A little recharge apart from one another is essential for both partners.

“I’ve fed the cat, done the dishes, cooked the soup, baked a cherry tart,” Emily thought, reaching for her mobile. “I’ll have a look at Facebook.”

She knew, logically, that digging up old friends online was pointless. In the whirl of daily troubles, those who aren’t with you stay out of your life – that’s the hard truth. Still, a dusty name from decades past kept tugging at her curiosity. She could almost see Daniel and feel something stir.

Whiskers shifted, offering his back, a belly, a head for a pat. He’d always obeyed Emily, wholly dependent on her. After a hearty dinner and a long workday, the cat dozed, curled up beside her. Cats don’t keep a nine‑to‑five schedule; a few hours of rest before bedtime restores their vigor.

“Fine, if I can’t have it, I’ll try anyway,” Emily decided, her heart thudding as she typed the long‑forgotten name of her former lover into the phone. The internet works like a miracle – one tap and you’re tangled in its web, slipping unnoticed into endless tunnels of information.

A flood of profiles bearing the name Daniel appeared. Emily clicked through, studying each portrait. “He could have changed a lot over the years, but not so much that I wouldn’t recognise him,” she whispered to herself. “What if he posts a car or a pet instead of a photo? How will I know it’s him?” she fretted, scrolling a little longer.

After about fifteen minutes, boredom set in and she was ready to give up when a black‑and‑white picture caught her eye. She swiped away, but something pulled her back to examine it more closely.

“No way,” she, out loud, exclaimed. She left the phone on the sofa and bolted to the bedroom, up to the loft where she kept her most guarded memories.

Admit it – you too have kept dried flowers from a school sweetheart, an empty perfume bottle, yellowed cinema tickets, a tram ticket stub, a broken hair‑clip, a tarnished brooch, a hand‑stitched handkerchief with initials. Reading these lines you might smile, or perhaps a tear rolls down your cheek. Those seemingly useless trinkets linger because they mean something – a reminder of people who shaped us, or simple moments that still sting when recalled. We keep them, even though we could toss them away.

In the far corner of a shelf, Emily found a cardboard box illustrated with a crystal vase holding a bouquet of red roses. She hoped that anyone who still remembered the taste of pink marshmallows, tangy marmalade squares and striped sherbet from childhood could feel a flicker of nostalgia. Those treats were once sold in that very box. Now the box housed a trove of secrets – shattered fragments of Emily’s dreams, hidden from prying eyes.

She opened it to discover a stack of old letters tied with a blue satin ribbon, a wilted rose, and a handful of other personal treasures. When she tugged the ribbon, the letters scattered; one envelope slipped to the floor, spilling black‑and‑white photos.

“This is the same picture I saw on Facebook,” she muttered, recalling how she and Daniel used to develop photos in the bathroom, rinsing them in a basin with developer and fixer, then hanging them on the window panes to dry.

Older photographers would speak of cameras like the “Foth”, “Kiev” and “Zenith”. Their black‑and‑white prints were magical; over‑exposing in the developer made them dark, under‑exposing left them pale. Emily examined the photos – one showed them feeding white swans at a pond, another captured them cuddled on a park bench. They certainly didn’t belong in a family album.

She also remembered her favourite polka‑dot dress, bought with her mother’s entire salary, and the month they survived on boiled potatoes, cabbage and tea. The shiny blue belt her aunt Kate had given her once highlighted her slim waist. And the red sandals she’d stood in line for hours to buy.

“It’s been ages,” Emily said aloud. “Thirty years, I think, since I last‑seen Daniel.”

Daniel had moved to London, sent letters for a while, then they stopped. Emily sighed.

She’d first met Daniel at a university party while studying food technology. He’d graduated from polytechnic but never worked in his field, constantly job‑hunting. His parents lived somewhere in Africa, visiting only a couple of times a year, spoiling him rotten.

Emily’s love for Daniel had been a bright flash in what felt like grey days. She was head over heels, almost delirious. For Daniel she’d broken off her three‑year relationship with James, planning to marry once James finished his surgical training.

James and Emily had grown up on the same landing, his polite, calm demeanor a perfect foil to her impulsive, sparkling nature. He’d always listened, never interrupted, and adored her. James would tie her shoelaces, coax her into wearing a hat and mittens, proudly carry her schoolbag, and hold her hand despite any teasing from classmates.

Daniel, in contrast, chattered nonstop, misplaced his things, but knew how to romance Emily – compliments, rare gifts, guitar songs, daily bouquets. His flamboyant courtship swept her away, and she left James without a word.

James had taken night shifts in the surgical ward, studied by day, and had barely any time for Emily. His parents scraped by, and he had to earn everything himself.

“What a fool I was,” Emily reflected, “to trade James for that self‑absorbed peacock.”

One evening Daniel invited her over. They popped champagne, nibbled strawberries, joked, and laughed. They sat close on the sofa, whispering sweet nothings. Daniel confessed eternal love, showered her with kisses – first her fingers, then her hands, her neck, finally her lips. What happened next, Emily could no longer recall.

A month later, suspecting something was wrong, she saw a doctor who confirmed she was pregnant.

“Daniel! I have good news – we’re having a baby! Boy or girl?” she asked, trembling.

“Really? That’s great,” he replied lazily. “I’ve got to dash to London for a few days on business. Once I’m settled, I’ll come for you. Don’t fret.”

Emily stood on the platform, waving at the speeding train, unaware it would be the last time she’d see him.

Soon came early morning sickness, tears of disappointment, fear, desperation, a feeling that the ground was slipping away.

“What’s the due date?” James asked when he bumped into her on the street.

“Four months,” she answered, averting her eyes.

“Did he leave you?” he pressed.

“Daniel went to London looking for work. He promised to return, but he’s stopped writing. Maybe something happened to him,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “James, I’m sorry for everything. If you can, forgive me. I hate myself.”

James reached for her hand, but she pulled away and ran.

Through mutual friends she learned Daniel had fled with a new lover to the Baltic states, his trail gone cold. The light in Emily’s heart dimmed. Was he ever her light at all?

Her health faltered, and she was admitted for observation.

“Don’t you see, Emily? The baby needs a father,” James repeated daily at the hospital, “Marry me. The child will bear my name. I promise I’ll never blame you for not being my child. You know I love you – I’ve loved you since we were kids in the sandpit, you in that yellow dress, scooping sand at our neighbour’s head, his screams echo‑ing across the yard. You were covered in green paint, and I thought, ‘What a brilliant girl, we’ll get along.’

If I’m any good to you, my love can stretch to two. I won’t promise gold, but I’ll share all I have, in wealth and poverty, in sickness and health, till death parts us. I swear it!”

Emily shook her head.

“You don’t know yet, James, but I’m having twins – two boys. How will you handle that? What will your parents think? Can you forgive me after everything I’ve done?” she sobbed.

James stared, unmoving, saying nothing.

She realised she had nothing left to hope for; she must pay for her mistakes.

“So we’ll have two lads? A bunk bed, a double pram, matching blue onesies?” James finally said, smiling. “Not everyone gets such a chance. We’ll get through this. When we’re together, we’re unstoppable. My parents won’t mind – I’ll make my own decisions and they’ll back me. I’ve saved money for our wedding; it’ll cover the prams and cribs. If you’ll be my wife, you’ll make me truly happy. I’ll do everything I can so you never regret choosing me.”

When Emily emerged from the maternity ward with her newborns, James stood beaming, flowers and balloons in hand, his own parents beside him. Nurses wiped away tears as James tenderly adjusted the tiny blue ribbons on the babies’ white swaddles.

James kept his promise – never once blamed Emily, always staying by her side through sorrow and joy. Four years later their daughter, Poppy, arrived.

Together James and Emily weathered much, never growing bitter; the roads they’d walked only tightened their bond. Their love became a rope twisted three times over. Believe it.

When their sons exchanged vows with their partners, the couple dabbed each other’s cheeks with handkerchiefs, fully aware of the weight of those vows. James had melted Emily’s frozen heart, turning it into a source of healing water. She still fans the flames of their love, making it burn brighter each year.

Remarkably, their boys, Sam and Max, followed in their father’s footsteps, both graduating from medical school – Sam as a surgeon, Max as an ophthalmologist.

Poppy, like her mother, loves baking. They opened a little patisserie on Central Street. Patrons praise the owners’ skill; the tiny shop is always bustling. Black‑and‑white photos line the walls – they’re powerful, revealing souls without distraction.

Emily retrieved the old negatives from her stash.

“It’s time to let go of the past,” she announced, lighting the film.

“Why aren’t you answering my calls?” a voice crackled.

“Sorry, James, I left my phone in the bedroom. Why aren’t you at work?” she turned, seeing him standing, eyebrows raised.

“What are you doing in the kitchen at midnight? Did we have a fire?” he asked.

“I’ve burned the negative memories. All’s well, don’t worry. The smoke will clear soon.”

“I keep calling, and you’re playing with matches? As Bulgakov said, ‘Manuscripts don’t burn.’ Do you think fire can erase memory?”

“Memory? Not likely. You can only destroy the old negative,” Emily sighed.

Where words fail, black and white will speak.

Do you agree?