**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, a black mourning ribbon tucked into the corner. This was how every morning began—glancing at the clock, then at his smiling face. Or the other way around. *”Good morning, love,”* he used to say. But he couldn’t kiss me anymore.
***
Nine days after the funeral, before leaving, my daughter removed the ribbon from the portrait. The next morning, I woke, saw the photo without it, and for a moment, I thought his death had been a nightmare.
I walked into the kitchen, where my daughter was making pancakes.
*”Has 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… Dad was buried yesterday. Don’t you remember?”*
I sank into a chair.
*”You took the ribbon off the portrait. I thought…”*
The grief crashed over me like a boulder, crushing the air from my lungs. My daughter knelt before me, searching my face.
*”Mum, I’m sorry. I’ll put it back—I didn’t think—”*
When I returned to the room, the ribbon was there again. It didn’t help. It made it worse. A dream and a lie would have been kinder than this reality. But I didn’t say that aloud.
*”Maybe come stay with us for a while?”* she offered.
*”I’m fine, really. I haven’t lost my mind. It’s just… seeing the photo without the ribbon, I wanted so badly for it all to be a nightmare. I’ll stay here.”* I almost added, *”With your father,”* but bit my tongue. She’d think I’d gone mad for sure.
*”I wasn’t implying anything—just asking.”*
*”You were,”* I said.
*”Don’t be cross, Mum.”*
She left, promising to call every day. She’d married her university sweetheart and moved to his hometown. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, and the pain hadn’t dulled. I’d learned to live with it. In the bathroom, I turned on the tap. Another bulb flickered out overhead. *Better this way,* I thought, washing away sleep. *In dim light, my reflection isn’t so frightening.*
Outside, trees stood in a greenish haze, buds swelling. In sunlit patches, the first young leaves had unfurled. The sky was heavy with clouds.
I left my empty coffee cup in the sink and dressed. On weekends, I often visited the cemetery, especially now that the snow had melted and the earth had dried. Today marked exactly eight months since his death. Eight months blurred into one endless day of grief.
At the gates, women sold fresh and artificial flowers. I chose fresh ones. His grave had already been swallowed by newer ones. I cleared the withered blooms, laid down the fresh ones, straightened the ribbons on the wreaths, traced his fading photo with my fingers. The sun had bleached it, erasing him bit by bit. Next time, I’d bring a new one, framed behind glass. My daughter and her husband would visit in summer—we’d order the headstone then.
The priest had said, *”With God, all are alive.”* Those words lodged in my mind like hope. Maybe that’s why I kept coming back. Here, I felt closer to him—not beneath the earth, but somewhere above. They say souls return to heaven, don’t they?
*”Hello. Are there new neighbors around you? Because I still feel so alone without you. Our daughter calls every day. She’s well. Remember how you didn’t want her to marry so young? But she’s happy with Tom. She loves him.”*
*”She thought she was pregnant, but it was just a delay. Relieved and disappointed 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 terribly. I keep dropping things. Broke so many dishes—even your favourite mug. I’m sorry. I meant to put it away. Why did I even touch it? Spilled tea yesterday. Keep leaving groceries at the checkout. Last week, it was cucumbers. Our daughter says I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s no better—making mistakes, might get fired. The bathroom lights have burned out. Did you buy spares? I couldn’t find them.”*
Raindrops hit my head.
*”Starting to drizzle. Told you everything, I think. I’ll be back soon. Till then, my love.”* I wiped my tears and walked away, stepping carefully around the fresh graves.
The bus took forever. I was soaked and shivering. The thought of the empty flat made my chest ache.
A removal van blocked the entrance, doors wide open. Men hauled boxes and furniture toward the lift. A neighbour stood arguing about the narrow path.
*”Hello. Do you know who’s moving in?”* I asked.
*”Oh, hello, Regina. Sixth floor, I think. The Carters sold their flat last winter—bought a house. You’re on seven, right? So they’ll be below you. Anyway, must dash—granddaughter’s home alone.”*
The lift carried me up. The flat greeted me with silence. I stepped into the kitchen—and into a puddle.
*”Just what I needed!”*
Under the sink, a slow leak dripped from the valve. I tried tightening it, but the stream worsened. A Saturday—if I called the plumber, he’d shut off water for the entire building. I set down a bucket, mopped the floor, and knocked on the flat below. The door was ajar.
*”Hello? I might be flooding you!”*
A man in his forties peered out. I startled.
*”I’m your upstairs neighbour. A pipe’s leaking—can you check if it’s reached you?”*
*”Let’s see.”*
In his kitchen, a damp patch spread across the ceiling.
*”I’ll pay for repairs,”* I said quickly.
*”Don’t worry. I’m renovating anyway. Let me fetch my tools—I’ll fix it temporarily.”*
Two hours later, he returned. I’d been watching the bucket like a hawk. Ten minutes of tinkering under the sink, and he straightened with a groan.
*”Should hold till Monday. Call a plumber then. Mind if I check your bathroom?”*
I didn’t argue.
*”Ah,”* he said, spotting the dead bulbs. *”I’ll replace these tomorrow.”*
*”You don’t have to—I’ll pay—”*
He studied me. *”Tea will be payment enough.”*
His smile was kind. My face warmed.
True to his word, he changed the bulbs the next day. The light was brighter, cheerier. He even fixed a loose socket. Over tea and biscuits, he said, *”You don’t remember me, do you?”*
*”Should I?”*
*”You have an unusual name. What did your mother call you as a child?”*
*”Needle. I was skinny. ‘Sharp as a needle,’ my gran said. How do you know me?”*
*”I’m a doctor. The hospital where your husband was brought after the crash. We remember the ones we couldn’t save. You sat in the corridor—no screams, no wailing. Just silent tears. His injuries were too severe. Nothing could’ve been done.”*
I stared at the table, nodding.
*”Now I’ve made you cry again. Every time you see me, you’ll remember.”*
*”You took me back there. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”*
*”I should go.”* He paused at the door. *”I’ll be making noise—drilling, sanding.”*
*”It’s fine,”* I said.
Days passed. He worked quietly in the evenings. The noise was almost comforting—a distraction from the silence.
Strange, the last person to see my husband alive now lived below me. I didn’t know how to feel. Did it matter? Or would he always remind me?
We crossed paths in the stairwell and courtyard. He’d greet me, his gaze lingering. By May, I swapped my dark clothes for a lighter dress, pinned my hair differently. Colleagues noticed.
*”Good for you. You can’t bury yourself alive. You’re young—you’ll find love again.”*
*”I dress for myself,”* I snapped. *”Black in summer’s unbearable.”*
*”I don’t need anyone,”* I told the mirror. But the lie tasted bitter.
One evening, he invited me to the cinema.
Go out with another man? He saw my hesitation.
*”Can’t go alone. Do me a favour?”*
She took his hand, and for the first time in months, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter.
