Stronger Than Death
Elizabeth opened her eyes. The clock on the wall read half past seven in the morning. Beside it hung a photograph of her husband with a black ribbon tucked in the corner. This was how every day began—staring at the clock, then at his smiling face. Or the other way around. “Hello. Good morning, love,” he used to say. Only now, he couldn’t kiss her like before.
***
Nine days later, just before leaving, their daughter removed the mourning ribbon from the portrait. When Elizabeth woke and saw the photo bare, she thought his death had been a nightmare.
She stepped into the kitchen, where her daughter was making pancakes.
“Has Dad already left for work?” she asked.
Her daughter spun around, eyes wide with confusion.
“Mum, you’re scaring me. First, it’s Saturday. Second… we buried Dad yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
Elizabeth sank heavily into a chair.
“You took the ribbon off the picture. I thought…”
She burst into tears. Grief crushed her again, like a slab of stone, stealing her breath. Her daughter knelt, cupped her face.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll put it back. I didn’t think—”
When Elizabeth returned to the room, the black ribbon was there again. It didn’t help. It made it worse. A lie, a dream—anything would be better than the truth. But she didn’t say it aloud.
“Maybe come stay with me for a bit? Take your mind off things?” her daughter offered.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’m not losing it. It’s just… seeing the photo like that made me wish it was all a bad dream. I’ll stay here. With Dad,” she almost added, but stopped herself.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Her daughter left, promising to call daily. She’d married a university sweetheart and moved to his hometown. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, and the pain hadn’t faded. Elizabeth learned to live with it. She turned on the bathroom tap. A flicker—another bulb died. “Better this way,” she thought, washing sleep from her face. “The dim light hides the shadows under my eyes.”
Outside, the garden bristled with swollen buds, a haze of green. In sunny patches, the first leaves had unfurled. Clouds smothered the sky.
Elizabeth set her empty coffee cup in the sink and dressed. Weekends meant visits to the cemetery, especially now the snow had melted and the earth dried. Today marked exactly eight months since the accident. Eight months of unbroken sorrow.
At the gates, women sold fresh and fake flowers. She chose real ones. His grave had been swallowed by newer ones. She cleared the withered blooms, straightened the wreaths, brushed her fingers over his photo. The sun had bleached it; his face was fading. Next time, she’d bring a new one, framed under glass. Her daughter and son-in-law would visit in summer, erect a proper headstone…
The vicar had said, “To God, all are alive.” The words stuck like hope. Maybe that was why she came here—to feel him closer. Not under the earth, but somewhere above.
“Hello. You’ve got company now. So do I, but it’s not the same without you. Sarah calls every day. She’s well. Remember how you didn’t want her marrying so young? She and James are happy.
She thought she was pregnant, but it was just a delay. Relieved and disappointed all at once. Not ready yet. Promised if it’s a boy, she’ll name him after you. That alright?
I miss you terribly. Everything slips through my fingers—broken dishes, even your favourite mug. Spilled tea yesterday. Keep forgetting groceries at the till. Sarah says I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s a mess, too. Might get sacked. The bathroom lights blew. Did you buy spares? I couldn’t find them.”
Raindrops pricked her scalp.
“Starting to drizzle. Told you everything, I think. I’ll visit soon. Until then, my love.” She wiped her tears and left, stepping carefully around fresh graves.
The bus took forever. She was soaked and shivering by the time it came. The empty flat yawned before her.
A removal van blocked the stairwell, doors gaping. Men lugged boxes inside. A neighbour squawked about the clutter.
“Excuse me, which flat are the new tenants moving into?” Elizabeth asked.
“Elizabeth! Sixth floor. The Wilsons sold up months ago—bought a house. You’re on seven, yes? They’ll be under you. Anyway, must dash, my granddaughter’s alone—” They squeezed past the boxes.
Upstairs, silence smothered the flat. She stepped into a kitchen puddle.
“Perfect.”
Under the sink, water dribbled from a loose valve. Tightening it worsened the leak. A Saturday—calling a plumber meant cutting water for the whole building till Monday. She mopped up, then knocked on the downstairs neighbour’s ajar door.
“Hello? I might be flooding you—”
A man in his forties appeared. She startled.
“Your upstairs neighbour. My kitchen pipe’s leaking. Can you check if it’s reached you?”
“Come in.”
A damp stain bloomed on his ceiling.
“I’ll pay for repairs,” Elizabeth said.
“Don’t bother—it’s due a refurb anyway. Let’s see yours. Called a plumber?”
“Not till Monday. He’ll shut off the mains.”
“Right. My tools should be here soon. I’ll come up after.”
Two hours later, he arrived. Elizabeth had been bailing the bucket. Ten minutes of tinkering under the sink. She didn’t interrupt—her husband had hated that.
“Fixed for now, but get a plumber Monday. Mind if I check your bathroom?”
She didn’t object.
“Ah,” he said, noting the dead bulbs. “I’ll replace these tomorrow, alright?”
“You don’t have to—I’ll pay.”
He studied her. “Tea will do.”
His smile was warm. She flushed.
True to his word, he replaced the bulbs the next day. The room brightened; even the loose socket felt sturdier. She served tea and biscuits.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked suddenly.
“Should I?”
“Unusual name, yours. What did your mum call you as a girl?”
“Needle. I was skinny. ‘Sharp as a needle,’ Gran said. How d’you know me?”
“I’m a doctor. Worked at the hospital where they brought your husband after the crash. We remember the ones we couldn’t save. You sat in the corridor that day—no screaming, just silent tears. His injuries… there was no chance. I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth stared at the table, nodding.
“Now I’ve made you cry again. Every time you see me—”
“You took me back there. Still can’t believe it.”
“I should go.” At the door, he paused. “I’ll be drilling, making noise with the renovations.”
“It’s fine. I understand.”
Days passed. She worked; he kept quiet evenings. The noise, when it came, was welcome—something to drown the memories.
Funny, the last person to see her husband alive now lived below. She wasn’t sure how to feel.
They crossed paths in the stairwell. He greeted her, eyes lingering. Spring warmed into May. She wore a sundress to work, pinned her hair differently. Colleagues noticed.
“Good. You can’t bury yourself alive. You’re young—you’ll find someone—”
“It’s for me. Black’s too hot in summer,” she snapped.
“I don’t need anyone,” she told the mirror, knowing it was a lie.
One evening, he invited her to the cinema.
Her husband was dead, and she’d go with a stranger?
“You’d leave me to go alone?” he teased.
“What’s the film?”
“Does it matter?”
It didn’t. She went. Walking home, he talked—married young, for love. His wife changed; wanted money, nagged, refused children.
“I was always at the hospital. One day, she left. Insisted we sell the flat after the divorce. Mine’s a long commute now.”
“We were happy,” Elizabeth sighed.
After that, they met daily. He asked her to help pick curtains. She bought him potted plants. The flat softened, grew lived-in.
Two lonely people. Fate, perhaps.
When he proposed, she accepted. Better this than just cohabiting. Even Sarah approved.
Then her mother-in-law visited, saw him fixing a shelf, and exploded.
“Not cold in his grave, and you’ve brought a man into his home! I knew you were never good enough for my Anthony! You killed him—it’s your fault—” Spittle flew, cheeks mottled. She threatened legal action, to reclaim the flat…
He showed her the door.
OnAs she placed fresh flowers on Anthony’s grave one final time, the wind lifted the petals like a whisper of approval, and she knew—love wasn’t a betrayal, but a promise kept.
