The Letter in the Grey

A Time Slip Flash Fiction Story

Foreword

There are journeys we take every day, and then there are journeys that take us. Some routes become ritual, worn smooth by repetition until they exist as much in memory as in the physical world. We board the same train, sit in the same seat, watch the same streets slide past the window, and somewhere between departure and arrival, the line between what was and what is begins to blur.

"The Letter in the Grey" is a story about such a journey—one that begins in the familiar territory of loss and routine, but ventures into the mysterious spaces where time bends and second chances whisper just beyond our reach. It asks whether love can transcend the boundaries we think are fixed, and whether the smallest gestures can ripple across years like stones thrown into still water.

In this tale, you'll find rain-streaked windows, the mechanical sigh of old trams, and the weight of words never spoken. But most of all, you'll find the truth that some destinations can only be reached by travelling through the heart of what we've lost.

Step aboard. The journey is about to begin.

The Letter in the Grey

Rain streaked the windows of the tram as Matthew watched the city melt into dusk, his reflection ghosted in the glass. He took this route every Thursday—same time, same seat—an old habit from when Louise used to wait for him at the final stop.

She wasn't there anymore. Not for years. Not since the accident in '98.

The tram slowed, a mechanical sigh in the hush of twilight. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something had shifted.

The advertisements had changed. The skyline beyond the window looked more raw, less built-up. The people's clothes... too familiar. A woman sat across from him, reading a paper dated April 16th, 1998.

His pulse faltered.

The tram shuddered to a stop. Instinct carried him off, past blinking lamplight and a newspaper vendor humming a tune he hadn't heard in decades. He turned the corner and there—there she was.

Louise. Smiling. Alive.

She looked up as if she'd felt his presence in the air, but her gaze passed through him, searching. She checked her watch. He wasn't late yet.

He realised then: this wasn't a second chance. He wasn't really here. Just a shadow.

But something tugged at him—his coat pocket was heavier. Inside, a folded letter, yellowed at the corners, but the ink still wet despite the age. Your tram is running late. Wait for me. It was in his handwriting, though he hadn't written it.

She glanced again at her watch, brow furrowed.

He stepped forward, close enough to feel her warmth in the cooling air, to catch the faint trace of her jasmine perfume, and dropped the letter just beside her bench.

The rain began.

She picked it up, puzzled.

Then she smiled. Not at him—but because of him.

And just like that, the street dimmed, city lights blurring. Matthew blinked. The tram rumbled again beneath him, and his reflection returned in the glass, older, lined. Alone.

But somehow, this evening felt less hollow. He watched the streets pass, not grey now, but touched with the same golden glow as those blinking lamps from decades past. He didn't know what had changed—only that somewhere, in some thread of time, she had waited... and he had made it.

Maybe that was enough.

My song, "Maybe You're the One" which in part inspired the story can be heard by clicking the link below.