**Stronger Than Death**
Emily opened her eyes. The clock on the wall showed half past seven in the morning. Beside it hung a photograph of her husband with a black ribbon tucked into the corner. This was how every morning began—her gaze flickering between the time and the smiling face of her husband. *”Good morning, my love,”* he used to say. But now, he couldn’t kiss her like he used to.
***
After nine days, before leaving, their daughter removed the black ribbon from the portrait. When Emily woke and saw the photo without it, she thought her husband’s death had been a nightmare.
She walked into the kitchen, where her daughter was making pancakes.
“Has Dad already left for work?” she asked.
Her daughter turned sharply, staring at her in alarm.
“Mum, you’re scaring me. First, it’s Saturday. Second… We buried Dad yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
Emily sank into a chair.
“You took the ribbon off the photo. I thought…”
She burst into tears, grief crashing over her like a slab of stone, stealing her breath. Her daughter knelt before her, searching her eyes.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’ll put it back. I didn’t think…”
When Emily returned to the room, the ribbon was back in place. It didn’t ease the pain—it made it worse. A dream and a lie would’ve been kinder than the awful truth. But she didn’t say it aloud.
“Maybe you should come stay with us for a while? Take your mind off things?” her daughter suggested.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I haven’t lost my mind. It’s just… when I saw the photo without the ribbon, I wanted so badly for it all to be a nightmare. I’ll stay here.” *”With Dad,”* she nearly added, but stopped herself.
“I wasn’t implying anything, just offering.”
“You were,” Emily said.
“Don’t be upset, Mum.”
Her daughter left, promising to call every day. She’d married a university friend and moved to his hometown after graduation. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, but the pain hadn’t faded. Emily had learned to live with it. She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the tap. A lightbulb flickered overhead before dying. *”Maybe it’s better this way,”* she thought, washing the sleep from her face. *”The dim light hides how terrible I look.”*
Outside, the garden was hazy with swollen buds. Here and there, sunlit branches bore the first tender leaves. Clouds hung heavy in the sky.
Emily turned from the window, left her empty coffee cup in the sink, and dressed. Weekends often meant trips to the cemetery, especially now that the snow had melted and the ground was dry. Today marked exactly eight months since her husband’s death—eight months that blurred into one endless ache.
At the cemetery gates, women sold fresh and artificial flowers. Emily bought fresh ones. Over time, her husband’s grave had vanished among newer ones. She cleared the wilted blooms, laid down fresh ones, straightened the ribbons on the wreaths, and touched his photo. The sun had faded it, erasing his face bit by bit. Next time, she’d bring a new one, framed behind glass. Their daughter and son-in-law had promised to visit in summer and arrange for a headstone…
The vicar at the funeral had said, *”With God, all are alive.”* Those words had stuck, a stubborn ember of hope. Maybe that was why she came here—this was where she felt closest to him. Not in the earth beneath her feet, but somewhere above. They said the soul returned to Heaven, didn’t they?
“Hello. You’ve got more company now. I’m still surrounded by people, but I feel alone without you. Our daughter calls every day. She’s doing well. Remember how you tried to talk her out of marrying? She and Tom are happy, they love each other.”
“Guess what? She thought she was pregnant, but the test was negative. She was relieved and disappointed all at once. Not ready for kids yet. But she promised if it’s a boy, she’ll name him after you. That alright with you?”
“I miss you so much. I keep dropping things—broke half the dishes. Even your favourite mug. I’m sorry. I meant to put it away. Why did I even pick it up? Spilled tea yesterday. Keep forgetting groceries at the shop. Left cucumbers in the basket last week. Our daughter says I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s not much better—keep making mistakes, might get sacked. The bathroom lights burned out. Did you buy spares? I couldn’t find any.”
A raindrop landed on her head.
“Rain’s starting. Think I’ve told you everything. I’ll come again soon. See you, my love.” She touched the photo, wiped her tears, and walked away, stepping carefully around the fresh graves.
The bus took forever. By the time it came, Emily was soaked and shivering. The thought of her empty flat made her chest tighten.
A removal van blocked the front steps, doors wide open. Workmen hauled out boxes and furniture, barely leaving room to pass. A neighbour stood grumbling on the narrow path.
“Hello. Do you know which flat the new people are moving into?” Emily asked.
“Hello, Emily. Sixth floor, I think. The Clarks sold over winter—bought a house. You’re on the seventh, right? So they’ll be below you. Anyway, I’d best get to the shops, my granddaughter’s home alone…” They squeezed past the boxes.
Emily took the lift to her floor and unlocked the door. Silence swallowed her. She kicked off her shoes, stepped into the kitchen—and into a puddle.
“Just what I needed!”
Under the sink, water dribbled from a valve. She tried tightening it, but that only made it worse. A Saturday call-out meant the plumber would shut off water for the whole block. She grabbed a bucket, mopped the floor, and knocked on the new neighbour’s door. It was ajar.
“Hello? I think I’m leaking into your flat!” she called.
A man in his forties appeared. Emily startled.
“Hi. I’m your upstairs neighbour. My kitchen pipe’s leaking—is it coming through to you?”
“Let’s check. Come in.”
The ceiling bore a damp patch.
“I’ll pay for the damage,” Emily said guiltily.
“Don’t worry, I was planning to redecorate anyway. Let’s see what we can fix. Did you call a plumber?”
“He won’t come till Monday. He’d have to turn off the whole block’s water.”
“Right. The movers are bringing my things now. I’ll find my toolbox and come up.”
Two hours later, he arrived. Emily had been bailing the bucket. He worked under the sink in silence. Her husband had hated being questioned mid-repair.
“Should hold till Monday. But do call the plumber.” He straightened with effort. “Mind if I check your bathroom?”
She didn’t object.
“Ah,” he said, spotting the dead bulbs. “I’ll buy new ones tomorrow and fit them. Alright?”
“You don’t have to—I’ll pay,” Emily said quickly.
He studied her.
“Tea will be payment enough,” he smiled. A warm smile. Emily flushed.
The next day, he fitted the new bulbs. Light flooded the room, lifting the gloom. He even tightened a loose socket. Emily served tea and biscuits.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“Emily’s an uncommon name. What did your mother call you as a child?”
“Needle. I was skinny. ‘Sharp as a needle,’ my gran said. But how do you know me?”
“I’m a doctor—at the hospital where your husband was brought after the crash. We remember our patients, especially the ones we couldn’t save. You sat in the corridor that day. Didn’t scream or sob. Just sat there, tears running down your face. His injuries… there was no chance. We couldn’t do anything.”
Emily nodded, staring at the table.
“Now I’ve made you cry again. Every time you see me, you’ll remember.”
“You took me back there. I still haven’t… gotten used to it.”
“I should go.” At the door, he paused. “I’ll be making noise—drilling, sanding.”
“It’s fine. I understand,” Emily said.
She worked days; evenings were quiet. She barely saw or heard him. But when she did, the noise was welcome—it drowned out the grief.
Strange—the last person to see her husband alive now lived below her. She wasn’t sure how to feel. Did it matter? Or would he always remind her?
Occasionally, they crossed paths in the stairwell. He’d greet her, watching her closely.
May brought warmth. Emily wore a summer dress to work, pinned her hair differently. Colleagues noticed.
“Good. You can’t bury yourself alive. You’She took a deep breath, stepped into the sunlight, and knew—somewhere between grief and hope—she had found the courage to live again.
