Love knocked at my door…
Emma had left her village for the city to attend university. Coming from a rural school made studies hard, but she buried herself in books, determined to pass her exams and keep her scholarship. Her mother could only help with food parcels.
Once Emma started working, she sent money home. Every holiday, she returned to the village. She dreamed of the seaside, of course, but swore to everyone that nowhere compared to the fresh air, the woods, and the river back home.
“Emma, love, when will you marry? No one caught your eye yet? I’ll never see grandchildren at this rate,” her mother sighed.
“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll marry,” Emma brushed her off, though the constant chatter about marriage grated on her nerves. Everyone in the village asked about it first thing.
She’d had boyfriends, even love, but no one had ever proposed.
She worked at a newspaper office. One evening, as her shift ended, a downpour lashed the windows. Just as it seemed to ease, Emma threw on her coat, grabbed her umbrella, and hurried outside—only for the rain to return with a vengeance. She huddled under the building’s awning, watching cars splash through puddles, icy droplets stinging her ankles.
A 4×4 slowed, avoiding the worst of the spray before stopping completely.
“Get in,” a man called through the open window. “Even if the rain stops, the roads are a lake. You’ll need to swim home.”
Emma climbed in. Six months later, her rescuer proposed. She wasn’t madly in love—just practical. Oliver was steady, reliable. They moved into his mother’s spacious flat in the city center.
His mother took an instant dislike to her.
“Don’t think you’ll get your hands on this flat, dear. That won’t work,” she warned sharply.
“Walking around in a dressing gown all day is indecent. It’s for the bathroom only. What if someone visits? Change at once!”
So Emma changed. Cleaning and cooking in smart dresses was impractical, but Margaret insisted, always dressed as if for high tea.
They never got along. Once, Emma overheard Margaret urging Oliver to divorce before children complicated things. Tearfully, Emma agreed—maybe his mother was right. She packed her things.
Oliver refused to let her go. The next day, he rented a flat, and they left. Life improved. Though Margaret likely still nagged over the phone, Oliver kept it from Emma. They saved diligently for their own home.
One Sunday, they went to the lake with friends—fishing, barbecues. Driving back after dark, their friends’ car sped ahead. Oliver accelerated to catch up.
Emma barely registered the headlights before impact. A 4×4 swerved into their lane—whether the driver had fallen asleep or lost control didn’t matter. Oliver died instantly. Emma spent four months in hospital.
Pale, limping, she returned to their rented flat—only to find strangers living there. A small bag of her belongings was returned. Oliver’s things had been taken by his mother, who’d also forfeited the lease.
Emma went to Margaret’s. The door opened a crack.
“Margaret, can I stay while I find a place?”
“Over my dead body. You killed my Oliver. You didn’t even come to his funeral! Get out!” The door slammed.
“I was in hospital! I couldn’t—” Emma pounded the wood.
“Leave, or I’ll call the police!”
Emma didn’t even ask for their shared savings.
She wandered the streets—where could she go? Oliver’s friends might’ve heard lies from Margaret. Clutching her coat, she took the train to her mother’s village.
A new horror waited: her mother had died two months prior while Emma was hospitalised. Her phone had shattered in the crash; no one could reach her.
The cottage held her mother’s presence—the smell of her cardigan still clinging to it, as if she’d step inside any moment. Emma collapsed onto the bed, weeping into the fabric until exhaustion took her.
A knock startled her awake. “Mum?” she gasped—but the voice was Oliver’s. “Emma, let me in…”
She flung the door open. Oliver stood there, his face bloodied—
Emma woke screaming, heart pounding. Another knock. Had the nightmare continued?
“Everything alright?” A gruff voice outside.
She opened the door to a tall, bearded stranger with piercing eyes.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I—I came to see my mum. This is my house.”
“You missed her funeral. Calls went unanswered.”
“I was in hospital. My husband… he died in the crash.”
His stance softened. “Roman. I look after the place—police are far, folks leave homes empty…” He stepped back. “I’m two doors down if you need anything.”
“William?” The name slipped out—though this man was too young, and William, her childhood friend, was long dead.
“No, Roman. William saved my life. Different story.” He left.
The next day, Old Tom visited, full of village gossip. “Heard you married a rich one.”
“He wasn’t rich,” Emma said. “Just a city boy to Mum.”
“Aye, well. You’re bonnie—you’ll find another.”
At the shop, the cashier refused her bread. “For locals only.”
Roman appeared, buying what she needed. Outside, he admitted, “Ex-army. Wife left me. Came to repay the mother of the man who saved me—then she passed. Stayed on. Someone’s got to keep the troublemakers in line.”
A week later, Emma prepared to leave.
“You’ll return?” Roman asked.
“Autumn. The garden…”
“I’ll handle it.”
Months passed. Cold set in. Emma never visited.
Then he appeared at her office—clean-shaven, handsome in a suit. “Waited an hour,” he teased. “Let’s talk.”
Overwhelmed, she barely worked. But leaving, she panicked—had he gone?
He materialised beside her, guiding her to a car. “Company vehicle,” he explained.
“I sorted my life first—divorce, flat. You mattered too much to just drop in.”
Her house sold, they bought a home together. On a snowy visit to the village, Emma flinched at passing headlights—until Roman’s steady grip on the wheel grounded her.
He was her bulwark against the dark. Love had knocked, not ghosts.
