Cover Art: Heart Holders, by Dastid Miluka. Acrylic on canvas, 2015, 50 x 40 cm. Private Collection. For inquiries about this piece, please contact us at art@thebrusselsreview.com.
The harsh intrusion of light startled me awake this morning, piercing my eyes like headlights through a windshield. Hungover and weary, I shuffled into the kitchen to reheat yesterday’s coffee, bracing myself for another monotonous day in my dull life: wake up, work, come home, binge a show, then sleep until the cycle begins anew.
For the past decade, little has changed. Ten years have passed since my girlfriend left me to pursue her passions with others; I couldn’t fulfill her ever-increasing demands for time and commitment. She railed against my simple amusements—trivia nights, playing darts with friends—I was too bookish, too boring for her.
Since then, I’ve hardly dated, existing in a cage of routine and stale pastimes. I work in a job I hate and watch as my few remaining friends move on with their lives—marrying, having children, traveling overseas.
As I placed my lukewarm coffee in the microwave, I glanced at my phone and blinked in surprise. It was Saturday! A day of freedom, a reprieve from the grind. Even the worst weather couldn’t dampen the joy that ran through me.
Tossing aside the stale coffee, I dressed quickly and stepped outside, beaming toward the sun and inhaling the crisp New England air. Eager to escape the confines of my cramped apartment, I meandered down the street, craving something—anything—different. My first act was to order a fresh cup of coffee at the bakery, savoring the aroma of ground beans and the sound of espresso whirling.
Back outside, I let my feet guide me, curiosity my only compass. Soon, I found myself in front of an old Victorian house, its windows crowded with mannequins, hand-crafted furniture, and knickknacks from bygone eras.
Intrigued, I stepped inside, ready to immerse myself in this forgotten world. A rusty bell above the door tinkled as I entered, the musty scent of antiquity—old books, lace garments, vanities—wrapping around me.
I navigated through the labyrinth of aisles, my fingertips brushing against aged tomes and weathered settees. Among the racks of vintage clothing, a smart jacket caught my eye. Its fabric, vibrant despite the years, seemed infused with the mystic essence of its past.
I slipped my arms into the sleeves and felt an inexplicable warmth, as if the jacket itself were embracing me. Gazing into an old, spotted mirror, I saw a different version of myself, as though I’d stepped into another’s life. The jacket fit perfectly, as if it had been custom-tailored for me.
Burying my fingers inside the pockets, I felt the weight of a watch and the bulk of an old leather billfold. As I pulled out the billfold, a crumpled piece of paper fell to the floor. It was a letter, penned in faded ink, addressed by a woman named Evelyn to a man named Charles.
The letter, dated May 21, 1918, spoke at length of her longing and love for him, of their shared dreams, and a promise to reunite soon. As I read this epistle of yearning, a sudden wave of empathetic melancholy washed over me. The jacket I now wore, a relic of the Great War, had held this letter for over a century—a silent witness to lives long gone.
But who was Charles? A scholar, imparting wisdom to those fortunate enough to evade the war? A musician, famous for his ragtime melodies? A surgeon saving lives amidst the carnage? And what had become of them? Had they ever reunited, or had their love languished, suspended by the upheaval of their times?
These questions haunted me as I bought the jacket and left the antique store, feeling an unexpected connection to the past. It was as if Charles’s spirit lingered within the fabric, stitched into every seam. As if I had become a custodian of memories and lives that transcended time, suddenly free from the ennui that had held me captive.
Wearing the jacket in the afternoon chill, I experienced a strange lightness, as though the burdens of my life had lifted. For now, I felt, I am Charles; endowed with a surge of energy and a sense of urgency to change my life. To talk to the next girl I meet, to seek the job of my dreams, to finally travel to Europe. As I walked toward the Commons, a wave of relief set in, and I felt happier and freer than I had in years, floating above the urban fray.