It feels like we were never apart…
Every day, Emily walks home hoping that Max will return. She knows he doesn’t have keys—he left them when he walked out. Still, she hopes to open the door and see his trainers in the hallway. This time, like every time, no miracle happens.
They lived together for two years. He filled the emptiness after her mum’s death. Why did she even start that conversation? There was never passion between them—just comfort. But Max never proposed, never spoke of a future, *their* future.
“What next?” Emily asked one evening.
“You mean a marriage certificate? Would that change anything?”
“It matters to a woman. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should end things?” she said, half-joking, trying to push him toward commitment.
“Fine. Let’s end it, then,” he said suddenly—and left.
A week has passed. She waits. Should she call? Ask him to come back? But if a man walks away that easily, he never loved her.
He appeared in her life when she was completely alone. Two years ago, a delivery van driver had a heart attack, lost control, and crashed into a bus stop. Her mum and another woman died instantly; the rest were injured but survived. The driver died in hospital after hearing what he’d done—massive heart attack.
News outlets covered it for days. After the funeral, Emily moved through life in a daze. She nearly stepped in front of Max’s car. He braked just in time, stormed out shouting—then saw her face and stopped. He drove her home and stayed.
He’s three years younger. Not a big gap, but to Emily, it felt like a decade. He never planned ahead, lived day by day, brushed off talk of children. “Kids? We’ve got time. Em, aren’t we happy as we are?” Max would laugh.
She wanted a proper family—a pram to choose, babygros to buy. Those conversations irritated him.
At home, she keeps her phone buried in her handbag, resisting the urge to check every minute. Each morning before work, her heart skips as she looks for messages. Max hasn’t written.
Another empty evening. A film plays on the telly, but she doesn’t see it. She only notices the muffled ringtone from the hallway when it’s almost too late. Digging through her bag—wallet, comb, the usual clutter—she finally grabs it. Not Max. She answers anyway, thinking his battery died, or worse…
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
She doesn’t care who it is or why they’re calling.
“It’s your Aunt Sandra’s neighbour. She passed away this morning.”
Aunt Sandra? What neighbour? What is this woman on about? Then a memory flares—a round, rosy-cheeked woman who covered her toothless smile with a hand. Her husband knocked them out drunk. She smelled of the hearth and fresh pies.
Emily loved summers at Aunt Sandra’s. Until Mum said they wouldn’t go back. She can’t remember why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Sandra altogether.
“Are you there?” the voice asks.
“Yes. What happened?”
“The doctor said it was a blood clot. Our local hospital’s not like city ones. We could’ve left her at home, but in this heat… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?” Emily asks. She has no intention of going.
“Day after tomorrow, as is proper. If you can’t, just say—we’ll delay—”
“No, I’ll come. Just tell me how.”
“Of course! How would you remember? It’s Mallowbrook village. Two hours by coach, less if you drive.”
“I’ll take the coach,” Emily says, remembering Max—and his car—are gone.
“Take it to Bramley Cross. No service to ours—you’ll walk the rest. Want us to meet you?”
“No need.”
“Come. She’s got no one else.”
*I won’t go. Why should I? I barely remember her. How did this woman even get my number?* Emily opens the wardrobe. A black dress—the one she buried Mum in—catches her eye. *Mum would’ve gone.*
She packs a navy-blue skirt with tiny white flowers and a plain black top. The rest is too bright for a funeral.
At work, she requests three days’ unpaid leave.
“Call if you need longer,” her manager says gently.
Back home, she gathers what she needs and heads to the station. She’s missed the coach; the next isn’t for two hours. No point going home. She kills time at a café, then the station shops—buys biscuits, wine, sweets. Can’t arrive empty-handed.
The whole journey feels pointless. By the time she steps off the coach, the sun is low but still scorching. Sweat glues her clothes to her skin. Soon, a car slows beside her. A man steps out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How—?”
“You don’t recognise me? It’s Nathan.”
A scrawny, snot-nosed boy flickers in her mind. No way he grew into *this*.
“Get in. Everyone’s waiting.”
“*Everyone?*”
“Your aunt’s funeral. We heard about your mum. Sorry. Aunt Nina was worried no family would come. But here you are.”
“*She* called me? How’d she get my number?”
“Your mum must’ve left it when she visited. Here we are.” He cuts the engine before she can ask *when* Mum visited.
A short, warm-faced woman hurries over before Emily’s even out.
“Look at you!” The woman hugs her—smelling of milk, bread, something achingly familiar. Feeling Emily stiffen, she steps back.
“Come inside.”
The door’s unlocked. “Left it open in case you came and I missed you. This is your house now. Sandra had no one else. Her husband’s gone. Your mum—God rest her—gone too. No kids. You’re the only heir. She always said the house was yours.”
“But my number—?”
“Your mum left it when she visited, just before she died. I tried her number first—disconnected. They hadn’t spoken in years, then suddenly, your mum turned up… Like she knew…”
“Why’d they stop speaking?”
“A man, of course. Sandra’s Mick fancied your mum. Proper did. But she left for the city. He followed, got knocked back, came home and hit the bottle. Married Sandra instead. Handsome, he was. Every girl fancied him. At first, they were happy. Then your mum visited with you. And that was that. After you left, Mick lost it. Beat Sandra so bad she lost every baby.”
Next summer, you came back—older. Sandra told your mum to leave *you* there. They rowed. Both too proud. Two months later, your mum fetched you—never brought you back. Mick drank himself to death. Sandra stayed alone. She adored *you*. When your mum visited before the end, they made peace…”
“She never told me she came.”
“Must’ve had her reasons. Yesterday, I found a note with your address and number in her things. Like she knew.” The neighbour sighs.
“They say deaths come in threes. Mick went four years back. Then your mum. Now Sandra. There’s cabbage soup in her fridge… The tap’s three doors down… Women’ll come tomorrow to cook for the wake… How long are you staying?”
“Leaving after the funeral.”
“Rest, then. It’s *your* house. Sandra meant to sign it over—don’t know if she did. Check the papers. I’m next door if you need me.”
Alone, Emily wanders the unfamiliar rooms. She remembers Sandra—nothing else. Photos line the walls. On a shelf, old magazines—Soviet-era. Childish scribbles on one. *Hers?* Whose else?
The linen cupboard smells faintly of Sandra. The fridge holds butter, cheese, untouched soup. Sandra hadn’t planned to die. Emily knows she won’t eat a bite.
She feels like an impostor. Why claim a house she doesn’t remember? Tomorrow, she’ll leave—never return. Let the neighbours take what they want.
Darkness falls early in the village. Through thin curtains, blue TV light flickers in windows. Emily switches off the lamp, undresses, slides under crisp sheets—Aunt Nina’s doing.
Half-asleep, floorboards creak. Sweat prickles her skin. *A ghost? Do ghosts curse when they drop things?*
A man’s muttered swearword. Worse than a ghost.
She grabs a log from the hearth, edges to the door—heart hammering—then shoves it open. “Who’s there?”
A torch beam dies instantly. The door slams into her, sending her sprawling. She scrambles up, flicks the light on—*who cares if the village sees her in knickers?* A knock at the window makes her jump.
“Emily! It’s me, Aunt Nina!”
She unEmily throws open the door and collapses into Aunt Nina’s arms, realizing home wasn’t the place she’d left behind but the one she’d just found.
