It felt like we’d never been apart…
Every day, Emily walked home hoping that Jack would return. She knew he didn’t have his keys—he’d left them behind when he walked out. Still, she hoped she’d open the door and see his trainers in the hallway. But this time, like all the others, no miracle happened.
They’d lived together for two years. He’d filled the gap her mum’s death had left behind. Why had she even started that conversation? There was never any fiery passion between them—just warmth, comfort. But Jack never proposed, never spoke about a future. *Their* future.
*”What happens next?”* Emily had asked one evening.
*”You mean a piece of paper?”* he’d scoffed. *”What difference would it make?”*
*”It matters to me. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should call it quits?”* She’d said it half-joking, testing him, hoping to push him.
*”Fine. Let’s end it.”* Just like that—he’d walked out.
A week had passed. She waited. Should she call? Beg him to come back? But if a man could leave that easily, did he ever really love her at all?
He’d appeared in her life when she was utterly alone. Two years ago, a van driver had a heart attack, swerved, and ploughed into a bus stop. Her mother and another woman died instantly; the rest were injured but survived. The driver died in the hospital after learning what he’d done. Massive heart attack.
Every news outlet covered it. After the funeral, Emily moved through life in a daze. She nearly stepped in front of Jack’s car. He slammed the brakes, leapt out—ready to shout—but took one look at her face and went silent. He drove her home. And stayed.
He was three years younger—not a gap, but to Emily, it felt like decades. He lived day by day, laughed off talk of kids. *”Kids? Plenty of time. Emmy, aren’t we happy just us?”*
But she wanted a family. A future. Picking out prams, tiny babygros. He hated those conversations.
Now, she left her phone in her bag on purpose, resisting the urge to check it every minute. Every morning before work, her heart hammered as she checked her messages. Nothing.
Another empty evening. The telly played some film she barely noticed. A muffled ringtone came from the hallway. She dug through her bag—wallet, hairbrush, the usual clutter—finally grabbing her phone. Not Jack. She answered anyway—maybe his battery was dead, maybe he’d crashed—
*”Emily?”* An older woman’s voice.
Suddenly, she didn’t care who it was or why they’d called.
*”Your Aunt Sandra’s neighbour. She passed this morning.”*
Aunt Sandra? What neighbour? What was this woman on about? Then—a flicker of memory. A round, jolly woman, her smile hidden behind her hand. Missing front teeth—knocked out by her drunkard husband. The smell of fresh bread and woodsmoke.
Emily had longed for summers at Aunt Sandra’s. Then her mum said they wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t remember why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Sandra herself.
*”You hear me?”* The voice pulled her back.
*”Yes. What happened?”*
*”Doctor said it was a blood clot. Small hospital, not like the city. Could’ve left her at home, but this heat…”* A pause. *”You coming?”*
*”When’s the funeral?”* She had no intention of going.
*”Day after tomorrow. But if you can’t—”*
*”I’ll be there.”* A lie, then the truth: *”I don’t remember how to get there.”*
*”Course you don’t.”* The woman brightened. *”Village of Oak Hollow. Two hours by coach, quicker by car.”*
*”I’ll take the coach,”* Emily said, remembering Jack had taken the car.
*”Get off at Willow End, then walk. The coach doesn’t go further. Need a lift from there?”*
*”No.”*
*”Come, then. She’s got no one else…”*
*I won’t go. Why should I? Barely remember her.* Emily opened the wardrobe. A black dress—the one she’d worn to her mum’s funeral—stared back. *Mum would’ve gone.*
She packed a long navy skirt, a black blouse. Nothing else was sombre enough.
At work, she requested three days’ leave.
*”Take more if needed,”* her boss said gently.
Home again, she gathered her things and caught the next coach. Missed the earlier one—had to wait two hours. No point going back. She killed time at a café, bought biscuits, wine. Couldn’t arrive empty-handed.
The whole ride, she questioned why she was bothering. By the time she stepped off, the sun was dipping but still blazing. Sweat glued her clothes to her skin. A car slowed ahead. A man stepped out.
*”Emily?”*
*”Yes. How—”*
*”Don’t recognise me? It’s Nicholas.”*
A scrawny, snot-nosed boy flashed in her mind. No way that kid had grown into *this*.
*”Hop in. Everyone’s waiting.”*
*”For me?”*
*”Your aunt’s funeral. We heard about your mum. Sorry.”* He drove smoothly. *”Aunt Nina was worried no family’d come.”*
*”The woman who called? How’d she get my number?”*
*”Your mum must’ve left it when she visited.”*
*When did Mum visit?* But they’d arrived.
A short, kind-faced woman rushed over. *”Look at you!”* She hugged Emily—smelling of milk, bread, something achingly familiar.
Inside, the door was unlocked.
*”Left it open—in case you came when I wasn’t looking. This is your home now. Sandra had no one else. No kids. You’re her only heir.”*
*”How’d you get my number?”*
*”Your mum left it—right before she died. I tried hers too, but it’s disconnected.”* A sigh. *”They hadn’t spoken in years, then suddenly, your mum visited… Felt it coming, I reckon.”*
*”Why’d they stop speaking?”*
*”A man, of course. Sandra’s Michael fancied your mum. But she left for the city. He followed—got rejected. Came back, drowned himself in drink, married Sandra instead. Handsome devil—girls adored him. At first, they were happy. Then your mum visited with you. After that, Michael lost it. Beat Sandra so bad she lost every baby.”*
Next summer, they’d visited again. Sandra begged her sister to leave Emily with her. They’d fought. Neither would back down. Two months later, her mum took her home—never returned. But Sandra adored you. When your mum came before she died… they made peace.
*”I never knew she visited,”* Emily whispered.
*”Must’ve had her reasons. Last night, I found a note—your address, phone number. Sandra knew.”*
*”They say deaths come in threes,”* the woman rambled. *”Michael went four years back—drank himself to death. Then your mum. Now Sandra. You staying long?”*
*”Just till after the funeral.”*
The neighbour left. Emily wandered the unfamiliar house. Nothing sparked memories. She studied photos, old magazines. Childish scribbles—hers?
The fridge held fresh food. Sandra hadn’t planned to die. Emily couldn’t eat.
She felt like an intruder. This wasn’t her home. She’d leave tomorrow—never return.
At night, floorboards creaked. A man’s muffled curse. Not a ghost—worse.
She grabbed a log, flung the door open—*”Who’s there?”*
A torch flicked off. The door slammed back, knocking her down. She scrambled up, snapped the lights on. A knock at the window—Aunt Nina.
*”Someone was inside!”*
*”Probably young Stephen—steals anything not nailed down.”*
Morning came. Women arrived, cooked, ignored her. The coffin came. Villagers gathered. She avoided looking.
After the burial, food covered the table—kutia, blinis, jelly. She couldn’t eat.
Nicholas found her in the garden. *”Stephen scared you last night. Harmless, just… off. I’m a constable—folks here listen to me.”*
She just wanted to leave.
*”No evening coach. Need a lift?”*
They talked all the way back. Felt like she’d known him forever.
*”My holiday ends next week. Mind if I drop by?”*
*”Flat forty,”* she said, heart pounding.
A weekAnd as she stood on her doorstep watching Nicholas drive away, she finally understood—sometimes the past leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.
