Author name: Mathew Haden

The first cold weekend of the year arrived the way it always seems to: overnight and without an invitation. Rain […]

The first sign is not in the forecast, but in the air itself. By late afternoon, the light outside your

The first time you see it, your stomach drops a little. There, cutting across the smooth black surface of your

The news arrived quietly, the way life-changing things sometimes do: a line in an astronomical bulletin, a date on a

The sound came first: a wet, impatient gurgle echoing up from the sink just as the evening quiet finally settled

The first thing you notice is the smell. Not the sharp, sterile scent of a clinic, nor the cloying perfume

The spring onions had been there only three days, but they already looked tired—limp leaves, pale bulbs, and that faint,

The first cold snap of the year always arrives the same way: quietly, without ceremony. One morning you wake up,

The first thing you notice is the sound. That low, constant hum that has followed you for years suddenly goes

The old clay pot was the color of baked bread and warm dust. Its rim was chipped, its sides faintly

The news slipped out on a quiet weekday afternoon, the way truly seismic things sometimes do. A few lines in

The first thing you notice is the sound of your feet. A gentle, rubber-on-concrete whisper, rhythmic and oddly comforting. It’s

The news arrived, as these things often do, on an ordinary morning that didn’t look like it would change anyone’s

The first time I learned that switching off the radiators in empty rooms might be a bad idea, I actually

The news broke just after dawn, somewhere between the first cup of coffee and the second scroll through the morning

The first time I met a pitanga tree, I didn’t know its name. I only remember the flash of red

The cash machine beside the corner shop is fading into the grey of a drizzly afternoon. Its screen is dark,

The first time you noticed it, you were standing in line somewhere ordinary—a coffee shop, a bus stop, the slow‑moving

The first time I saw Evelyn walking backwards around the lake, I was sure she’d forgotten something. A scarf, a

The morning mail arrived with the soft thump that always made Ellen pause. At seventy-two, she had learned that envelopes

The sky above Anfield had that particular shade of Liverpool grey – somewhere between steel and saltwater – when the