**Stronger Than Death**
I opened my eyes. The clock on the wall showed half past seven in the morning. Beside it hung a photograph of my husband with a black ribbon tucked into the corner. This was how every morning began—glancing at the time, then at his smiling face. Or the other way around. *”Hello. Good morning, love.”* That’s what he used to say. Except now he couldn’t kiss me like before.
***
After nine days, before my daughter left, she removed the black ribbon from the portrait. When I woke the next morning and saw the frame bare, I thought his death had just been a nightmare.
I walked into the kitchen, where my daughter was making pancakes.
“Has your dad already left for work?” I asked.
She spun around, staring at me in shock.
“Mum, you’re scaring me. First, it’s Saturday. Second… we buried Dad yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
I slumped into a chair.
“You took the ribbon off the photo. I thought…”
Then the tears came. The grief crashed over me like a wall, crushing the air from my lungs. My daughter crouched in front of me, searching my face.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’ll put it back—I didn’t think…”
When I returned to the bedroom, the ribbon was there again. But it didn’t help—it made it worse. A dream, a lie, would have been kinder than this waking horror. I didn’t say it aloud.
“Maybe you could come stay with us for a while? Take your mind off things?” she offered.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I haven’t lost my mind. It’s just… seeing the photo like that made me wish it had all been a nightmare. I’ll stay here. *With Dad*, I almost added, but stopped myself—no need to frighten her further.
“I wasn’t implying anything—just a suggestion.”
“You were,” I said.
“Don’t be angry, Mum.”
She left with a promise to call every day. She’d married her university sweetheart and moved to his hometown after graduation. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, but the pain hadn’t faded. I’d just learned to live with it. In the bathroom, the tap ran as another bulb flickered out overhead. *Better this way*, I thought, rinsing sleep from my face. *Bad lighting hides the worst of my reflection.*
Outside, the trees were wrapped in a green haze, buds ready to burst. A few early leaves had already unfurled where the sun touched the yard. The sky hung heavy with clouds.
I turned from the window, set my empty coffee cup in the sink, and dressed. Weekends often meant the cemetery, especially once the snow had melted and the ground dried. Today marked exactly eight months since his death. Eight months that had blurred into one endless ache.
At the gates, women sold fresh and artificial flowers. I chose real ones. By now, his grave was lost among newer ones. I cleared the withered blooms, laid down fresh ones, adjusted the ribbons on the wreaths, touched his photo. The sun had faded it—his face dull, disappearing. Next time, I’d bring a new picture, framed under glass. My daughter and her husband would visit in summer, and we’d finally put up the headstone…
The priest at the funeral had said, *With God, all are living.* Those words stuck like hope. Maybe that’s why I kept coming—here, I felt him closer. Not underground, but somewhere above. They say the soul returns to heaven…
“Hello. You’ve got more company now. Even surrounded by people, I still feel alone without you. Our daughter calls every day—she’s doing well. Remember how you tried to talk her out of marrying so young? She and Tom adore each other.”
“Guess what? She thought she was pregnant, but it was just a late period. Relieved and disappointed all at once. Not ready for children yet. But she promised if it’s a boy, she’ll name him after you. Would you mind?”
“I miss you. Everything slips through my fingers these days—so many broken dishes. Even your favourite mug. I’m sorry. Meant to put it away, but… why did I even pick it up? Spilled tea yesterday. Keep leaving groceries in the trolley. Fresh cucumbers last week. Our daughter jokes I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s no better. So many mistakes, they’ll sack me soon. The bathroom lights burned out. Did you buy spares? I couldn’t find any.”
Raindrops tapped my head.
“Starting to drizzle. Told you everything, I think. I’ll visit again soon. Until next time, my love.” I wiped my tears and walked away, stepping carefully around the fresh graves.
The bus took forever. I was soaked and shivering by the time it came. The flat would be hollow, silent.
A removal van blocked the front steps, doors wide open. Men hauled out boxes, furniture, sacks. A neighbour stood scolding them for blocking the path. They just kept working, breath heavy.
“Hello. Do you know who’s moving in?” I asked.
“Oh, hello, Regina. Sixth floor, I think. The Browns sold their flat last winter—bought a house. You’re on seven, yes? So they’ll be beneath you. Anyway, must run—granddaughter’s alone…” We squeezed past the clutter.
Upstairs, silence swallowed me. I kicked off wet shoes, stepped into the kitchen—straight into a puddle.
“Perfect. Just what I needed.”
Under the sink, water trickled from the shut-off valve. I tried tightening it; the leak worsened. Saturday—a plumber would cut the whole building’s water for days. I grabbed a bucket, mopped the floor, then knocked on the new neighbour’s door. It stood ajar.
“Hello? I think I’m leaking into your flat!” I called.
A man in his forties peered out. I startled.
“Hi. I’m your upstairs neighbour. There’s a pipe issue—could you check if it’s reached you?”
“Let’s see.” He led me to his kitchen. A damp patch spread on the ceiling.
“I’ll cover the repairs,” I said quickly.
“Don’t worry—I was renovating anyway. Let me check yours.”
Two hours later, he returned with tools. I’d been bailing the bucket. Ten minutes under my sink, and he straightened with a groan.
“Fixed for now, but call a plumber Monday. Mind if I check your bathroom?”
No argument from me.
“Ah.” He eyed the dead bulbs. “I’ll replace these tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to—I’ll pay—”
He looked at me. “Tea’s payment enough.”
His smile was warm. My cheeks burned.
True to his word, he changed the bulbs the next day. Brighter, suddenly cheerier. He even tightened a loose socket. Tea and biscuits followed.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Your name’s uncommon. What did your family call you as a child?”
“Needle. I was scrawny—sharp as one, Grandma said. But how do you know me?”
“I’m a doctor—was at the hospital when they brought your husband in after the crash. We remember the ones we couldn’t save. You just sat there in the corridor. Not screaming, not sobbing. Just tears. His injuries… there was no chance. We couldn’t help.”
I nodded at the table, eyes stinging.
“Now I’ve made you cry. Every time you see me, you’ll remember.”
“You said it, and I was back there again. Still feels unreal.”
“I’ll go.” At the door, he paused. “I’ll be drilling, making noise with the renovations.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
After that, he kept quiet in the evenings. I barely saw or heard him, but when I did—it helped. Noise drowned the grief.
Funny—the last person to see my husband alive now lived below me. I wasn’t sure how to feel. Did it matter? Yet he *was* a reminder.
We crossed paths in the hall, the street. He’d smile, watch me closely. May warmed everything. I wore a light dress to work, pinned my hair differently. Colleagues noticed.
“Good. You can’t bury yourself alive. You’re young—you’ll find someone…”
“I dress for *me*. Black in summer’s absurd,” I snapped.
*I don’t need anyone,* I told the mirror. The lie tasted bitter.
Then one day, he asked me to the cinema.
My husband was gone—and I’d go out with a stranger? He saw my hesitation.
“I can’t go alone. Rescue me?”
“What’s the film?”
“Does it matter?”
It didn’t. I went. Walking home afterwards, he talked. Married young, wildly in love. Then his wife changed—demanded more money, picked fights. Refused children.
“I wasAnd as the summer sun set over the quiet streets, Regina realized that while love could be lost, it could also be found again—not to replace, but to heal.
