The rain, as always, was a relentless grey, a liquid stone clinging to the cobblestones. It seeped into the very marrow of Edinburgh, a dampness that mirrored the mood of the charwomen. I, Euphemia MacLeod, have known this city – and its grime – for thirty years. My days begin before the sun thinks to rise, scrubbing the floors of the lawyers’ offices, the bankers’ halls, the warehouses that smell of salt and secrets. They call us ‘dust-gatherers,’ a cruel jest, for we collect more than dust; we collect the echoes of ambition, despair, and the forgotten dreams of men. The silence of the morning is broken only by the rhythmic swish of my broom and the mournful cry of the gulls above Portygate. There’s a particular sadness clinging to the offices of Mr. Henderson, the solicitor. He lost his son in the Crimean War. You can almost smell the gunpowder and the grief. The men, hardened by years of toil, rarely speak of their feelings. But I see it in the way they grip their pipes, in the tightness of their jaws.
Today, I found a small, tarnished button near the entrance to his office. Bone white, like a fragment of a skull. I pocketed it. Perhaps it will serve as a reminder, a tiny, silent witness to the weight of loss. The City Watch are always present, their dark coats a constant, watchful presence. They tolerate us, these charwomen, because we are invisible. We are the city’s shadow, a necessary, and largely ignored, part of its intricate machinery.
The air still smells faintly of smoke, even after five years. The Zeppelin raids, they call them. I work in the offices of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society, a grand building that somehow manages to remain remarkably clean despite the constant stream of dignitaries and scholars. My task is to polish the mahogany desks and floors, to ensure that the men can continue their meticulous work of charting the world. But the world feels… different. The maps are filled with jagged lines of destruction. I overheard a conversation between Professor Macgregor and Mr. Davies – the professor, a man obsessed with the Arctic, and Mr. Davies, a specialist in naval intelligence. They were discussing the ‘shadows’ that moved across the night sky. They spoke of the ‘Grey Men,’ as the locals called them, though I suspect those were just the pilots. But the fear is palpable. It’s a cold fear, a fear that settles into your bones.
I found a small piece of sheet music near the window, crumpled and stained with rain. It was a waltz, titled ‘Edinburgh’s Lament.’ The notes are blurred, as if someone had wept over them. I don't know who wrote it, but it feels like a lament for all the lost things – not just the dead, but the innocence, the future, the hope. The City Watch are more vigilant now, their boots echoing on the cobblestones. I often catch the eye of Constable O’Malley, a young man with a haunted look. He reminds me of my own son, lost to the sea. The silence, even in the busiest of days, is filled with a low hum of anxiety. It's a silence born of dread.
Tonight, I dreamt of grey stone, of endless corridors, of the faces of the dead. I woke with a start, the taste of dust and rain on my tongue.
The air raid sirens are a constant companion now. I clean the offices of the Scottish Office, a building that feels increasingly cold and sterile. The men are obsessed with numbers, with rationing, with the endless flow of reports. They speak of ‘victory’ and ‘sacrifice,’ but their eyes hold a weary sadness. I am a widow, you see. My husband, William, was lost at sea during the Battle of the Atlantic. I don’t speak of him. It’s too painful. But his memory is here, in the scent of the damp stone, in the echoes of his footsteps. I often find small tokens – a pressed flower, a broken button – left behind by visitors. Today, I found a photograph of a young boy, smiling bravely. It’s a stark reminder of what is at stake. The City Watch are more present than ever, their faces grim, their movements precise. They patrol the streets with a quiet determination, a sense of duty that borders on obsession. I saw Constable MacIntyre talking to a young woman, offering her a cup of tea. It was a small kindness, a brief moment of humanity in a world consumed by darkness. The silence is broken only by the distant rumble of bombers and the mournful wail of the sirens. It’s a silence filled with dread, with loss, with the weight of the world.
Tonight, I dreamt of grey stone, of endless corridors, of the faces of the lost. I woke with a start, the taste of dust and rain on my tongue. I picked up a small, smooth stone from the floor. It was grey, almost black, and it felt strangely warm to the touch. I held it for a long time, trying to understand its significance. Perhaps it was a fragment of a fallen soldier’s uniform, or a piece of a shattered dream. Or maybe it was simply a reminder of the enduring power of memory, of the echoes of the past that linger in the heart of the city.