The Last Telegram

-London 1943-

The war had stripped the world of tenderness, leaving only duty in its place.

The Central Post Office had lost its soul to the war. Once a bustling hub of daily chatter and hurried footsteps, it now stood hollow, drained of warmth. The air hung thick with the scent of damp paper and ink, and the walls, yellowed from years of tobacco smoke and fatigue, bore silent witness to countless telegrams that had shattered the hope of unexpectant families. The clerks who staffed the counters moved like ghosts, mere conduits between the war front and home, their expressions dull, their backs bent under the weight of perpetual fear, each telegram another stone added to their burden.

Eleanor "Nell" Harper had become one of them. At just twenty-four, the war had filed away the softness of her youth, leaving only a hardened resolve in its wake. Her sweaters, once vibrant and sturdy, now showed signs of distress—frayed cuffs, thinning wool, small tears in need of mending. She sat at her station, her fingers—jagged, chewed nails betraying her nerves—tapping against the latest telegram as her stomach twisted. 

She had read enough of them to know what this one meant before she even looked at the details. The black border around the envelope was a silent death knell. She had seen every kind of grief—wives collapsing in the street, mothers clutching at her coat as if she could somehow bring their boys back, fathers who simply nodded and shut the door, their sorrow swallowed whole. She pondered delicately which reaction this telegram would produce, who it would affect for all of their life.

Swallowing hard, she smoothed the paper against the counter and forced herself to read.

Regret to inform you...

Her breath hitched. Her eyes skimmed downward.

Thomas Winston. Killed in action.

Nell’s fingers threaded a loose curl of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous tic she had never outgrown. She pressed her lips together, her pulse hammering as she stared at the name.

Mrs. Beatrice Winston.

She knew that name.

The elderly woman lived just a few streets from her own small flat. Beatrice had always been kind—always stopping to chat, even when ration lines stretched endlessly down the block. She had once mended Nell’s coat when she couldn't afford a tailor, waving away her attempt at payment. Before she retired, she had been the beloved schoolteacher of the neighborhood, known for her warmth, her patience, and the way she poured into each of her students. Beatrice had always been full of life, her laughter ringing down the school corridors, her encouragement shaping countless young minds. But the war had taken its toll. She had been slowly losing hope for Thomas' safety and return, and the people around her had noticed. The light that once shone so brightly in her had dimmed, flickering under the weight of worry.

And now Nell was meant to deliver her the worst news imaginable.

Her fingers curled around the telegram, knuckles white.

One thought lodged itself in her mind, sharp as broken glass:

I don’t have to deliver it right now. I don’t have to break her heart. 

_________________

Nell had barely slept.

The telegram sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach, a weight she carried even as she stepped into the grey morning air. She told herself she’d deliver it today. Or perhaps someone else would.

Either way, she couldn't keep it from Beatrice forever.

She wrapped her coat tighter against the damp chill and made her way to the market, hoping a task as simple as buying bread might settle her nerves. But fate had other plans.

“Nell, dear!”

Her breath caught.

Beatrice Winston stood by a modest stall of root vegetables, her gloved hands cradling a letter as though it were something sacred. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with a joy that seemed almost foreign in these times.

“I was hoping I’d see you,” Beatrice continued, tucking the letter into her handbag with careful reverence. “I got a letter from Thomas two days ago. Katherine from the post brought it.” She beamed, oblivious to the way Nell's body stiffened. “He’s well, you know. Said the worst of it is behind him, and he’ll be home before Christmas.”

Nell’s pulse roared in her ears.

That wasn't possible. Was it?

The telegram had been explicit. Thomas Winston. Killed in action.

A chill, colder than the morning fog, settled over her. The explanation seemed simple enough—Beatrice’s letter must have been delayed in its long journey from Africa, arriving long after it had been written. It wouldn’t be the first time a soldier's words reached home long after they had already perished. A cruel trick of time.

And yet…

Still, what good would it do to question Beatrice now? To snuff out that flicker of hope before the truth was undeniable?

So she did the only thing she could.

She forced a smile.

“That’s wonderful news,” she said, the words like ash in her mouth.

Beatrice nodded, her joy undimmed. “Oh, it is, dear. It truly is.”

Nell bid her goodbye soon after, clutching her market bag with white-knuckled fingers as she turned away.

The telegram burned in her pocket.

This wasn’t over, she feared.

______________

“Nell.”

She turned at the sound of her name, finding herself face to face with Mr. Whitaker, her supervisor. His face was as weary as the rest of them, lined with the strain of too many years delivering sorrow.

He nodded toward her station.

“Your deliveries—have they all gone out?”

Her pulse quickened. The telegram still sat in her pocket, folded neatly but weighing on her like an iron chain.

“I—I believe so,” she hedged, the lie catching in her throat.

Whitaker’s gaze sharpened, though not unkindly. “Check again,” he said. “These messages—they must reach their destination. It is our duty to ensure news is spread, families are informed. You cannot leave any stone unturned.”

Nell nodded stiffly, watching as he moved on, his presence leaving a trail of expectation in its wake.

Duty.

She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to push away the wave of memory threatening to rise. Her own brother had died in the early days of the war. She had watched her mother shatter, had seen the way grief hollowed her father until only the bottle remained to fill the void. She knew, more than most, what this telegram meant. Knew the moment Beatrice received it, her world would never be the same.

And yet, it was not her choice to make.

She exhaled, long and slow, steadying herself. Then, with trembling fingers, she reached into her pocket, smoothing the telegram in her hands.

It was time to do what had to be done.

___________

Nell stepped out into the cold evening air, her breath visible in the dim gaslight. The telegram felt heavy in her pocket, heavier than it should have been. Each step toward Beatrice’s small house felt like a lead weight dragging her down.

She fiddled with a loose thread at the hem of her sweater, pulling at the fabric with restless fingers. Her stomach twisted as she neared Beatrice’s doorstep. Light glowed from the window, warm and golden, a stark contrast to the icy dread creeping into her bones. She had to do this. She had to make it right. But as she raised her hand to knock, her fingers trembled.

The door swung open before Nell could gather her nerve. Beatrice stood there, beaming, the soft strains of a phonograph humming from within. The song—Frenesi by Artie Shaw, one of Thomas’s favorites—floated through the warm air, rich with nostalgia.

“Nell!” Beatrice exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come in, dear. I was just practicing.”

Nell blinked, throat dry. “Practicing?”

“For when Thomas comes home,” Beatrice said, stepping aside. “Lord Walton’s pie—it was always his favorite. I want to make it just right.”

The smell of buttery crust and rich filling wrapped around Nell, warm and suffocating. Her stomach twisted. She had come here to tell the truth, to place the telegram in Beatrice’s hands and let the weight of it fall between them.

But now, standing in the doorway, she faltered.

“Come, try a bite,” Beatrice urged, lifting a steaming plate toward her.

Nell hesitated. But Beatrice’s eyes were so bright, so certain. It was unbearable. She stepped inside, hands trembling, and took a small bite. The pie was warm, familiar. And yet, it might as well have been dust.

Beatrice settled across from her, hopeful and waiting. “So, what brings you by tonight, dear?”

The words were there, lodged in Nell’s throat like a stone. He’s gone, Beatrice. He’s not coming home. She could feel them pressing against her ribs, demanding to be set free.

Her fingers curled into her lap.

She couldn’t do it.

She looked down, grasping at the frayed hem of her sweater, as if searching for something to anchor her. She swallowed hard, then forced a small, fragile smile.

“I was wondering…” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “If you could help me mend this.”

Beatrice blinked in surprise, then her face softened with warmth. “Oh, of course, dear. Let me fetch my sewing kit.”

She bustled away, humming along to the music, and Nell let out a slow, unsteady breath.

She had come to break Beatrice’s heart.

Instead, she had chosen to let it keep beating—just a little while longer. After all, the war had stripped the world of tenderness, leaving only duty in its place.