Oliver belatedly realized he was standing on a stool with a rope in his hands—that his intentions might be misunderstood.
He sat on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet planted on the floor. Again, he thought he heard his mother calling.
“Oliver… love… Oliver…”
Nearly every night, he woke to her voice. He knew she couldn’t be calling him—she’d died three weeks ago. Still, he listened, waited.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. Oliver worked from home to stay close, tried hiring a carer once, but the woman bolted after three days, stealing his mother’s gold jewelry and what little cash they had. He didn’t risk it again.
Working at his desk, he’d snap to attention at the slightest sound, rushing to her side. Exhaustion pulled him under—sometimes he’d wake slumped over the keyboard. That last night, her voice yanked him awake. He sprinted to her room, but she wasn’t breathing. He wept, begging forgiveness—not just for grief, but for the relief he felt. She was free. So was he.
Yet three weeks alone brought no joy, just a sucking emptiness inside.
She’d been lively, youthful—humming while ironing or tidying the flat. He never imagined her fading like this.
Too awake now, he checked the clock—half six. Outside, a grey autumn haze hung stubbornly. Somehow it seeped inside too, leaching color from everything. Quiet. Hollow.
He felt grey himself—half-dead. Dressing quickly, he approached her bedroom door. He’d only gone in once since, to pick out her funeral dress. Now he flung it open. The stench hit him—medicine, sickness, stale air. Avoiding the crumpled bed, he wrenched the curtains apart, shoved the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, along with the waking city’s hum. The room sharpened, colors deepening. Energy surged through him. He stripped the bed, bundling sheets, her waiting dressing gown—all flung to the floor. A mountain of fabric. He hauled it to the washer.
Back with a bin bag, he swept pill bottles, a used glass—everything—into it. He remade the bed, dusted, mopped. The room didn’t sparkle, but it breathed. Encouraged, he cleaned the whole flat.
Proud, he leaned by the window as the kettle boiled. Mirroring his sudden vigor, the sun tore through the clouds—a jagged stripe of blue. His mood lifted.
The fridge was bare. He couldn’t remember his last proper meal. Toward the end, she’d managed only puréed slop. Too tired to cook separately, he ate the same. Later, he picked at funeral leftovers. Now, only a half-finished jar of pickles, skimmed with mold, and sour milk remained. He binned it all.
Black coffee churned his stomach. Shoving his card into his coat, he took the rubbish out. On the way back, he grabbed bread, milk, pasta, ham, apples—restraining himself from buying everything.
At home, he wolfed two ham sandwiches as pasta boiled. The washing machine beeped.
No room on the bathroom rack. No balcony, no dryer. Scratching his head, he eyed the living room—only option. No visitors to judge him, and it’d dry fast enough. A coil of rope lay in the hallway drawer—his mother’s “just in case” stash.
Unbidden, Sophie came to mind. His girlfriend of two years. His mum had approved, but Oliver dragged his feet. Loved her, yet bristled at her wedding plans, her mapped-out future.
“Marry now or never,” his mother warned. He’d relented—then she fell ill. Sophie postponed. Who’d nurse a dying mother-in-law?
At first, she visited, cooked. Then just calls—busy, always busy. The phone fell silent. He didn’t chase her.
After his mother died, he rang Sophie. She offered limp condolences, skipped the funeral. No loss.
Back to the rope—one end tied to the pipe, the other… A nail in the doorframe would do. Thank God they’d kept the old painted-wood doors, not cheap MDF.
As he stood on the stool, a thought struck: Would it hold his weight? He froze.
Footsteps outside. The new neighbour—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The elderly couple who’d lived there had retired to the countryside, renting their flat. Recently, he’d noted her routine: heels clicking, the front door’s thud, silence until her return. No visitors. The hallway always smelled of her perfume.
Now, the heels paused at his door. It creaked open. A slender woman stared up at him, eyes wide.
Too late, he registered the scene: stool, rope, disheveled man.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could you help me?”
He hopped down. She stepped back—understandable. Unshaven, hollow-eyed, in stained joggers and a holey tee, he looked derelict.
“What’s wrong?” he grunted.
“I think I lost my keys,” she murmured, rummaging in her bag.
Oliver frowned. Had he left the main door unlocked?
“They’re not here.” Her eyes—startlingly green—met his. “How do I get in?”
“Call the locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track.
“Fine. I’ll try.” He dug out tools, jimmied the lock for an hour.
“Done,” he said, sweaty and spent.
“Thanks,” she said flatly, lingering. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” He opened the window wider.
As she lit up, he heard keys clink in her bag. The realisation hit: She’d faked it. Thought he was suicidal.
He fetched the washing, strung it up while she watched.
“I know your mum died,” she said suddenly.
“Three weeks ago. And no, I wasn’t about to hang myself. Do I look that pathetic?”
“You do,” she said simply.
“Call a locksmith tomorrow. I broke your lock,” he muttered, flushing.
“I made too much meat this morning. Want some?”
“Why cook extra?”
“I’m Emily,” she said, ignoring him. “My place or yours?”
“Yours. Let me shower first.”
Under the spray, he scrubbed off weeks of grime, dressed in clean jeans and a shirt. The mirror showed a man almost handsome.
Emily’s flat smelled of roast meat. A salad, wine, two glasses waited.
They ate, skirting deep topics, easy banter turning to “you.”
“When did you last just walk?” she asked. “No rain—it’s nice out.”
“Can’t remember.”
She washed up, arranging dishes by size, cups handle-out. The towel hung precisely centre—then, with a twitch, she skewed it.
“Why rent? You’re no student.”
“Left my husband. Mum loves him—would’ve nagged me back.”
“Ah. Too obsessive?”
Her brows shot up. “How’d you guess?”
“You lined the dishes up.”
She laughed. “Discipline, order—his mantra. Even sex was… scheduled.”
“Sounds grim.”
“It was. But Mum says he’s ‘reliable.’ The meat’s his Sunday habit. Walk?”
“What about your door?”
“Nothing to steal.”
They wandered for hours, returning past midnight, reluctant to part. The hall still held her perfume’s trace.
“Your place or mine?” she said. “Will you call me strange first, or just take me to bed?”
He grinned. “You’re strange. Wonderful.”
Scooping her up, he nudged her door open. She clung to him, laughing as he bumped into furniture.
His heart hammered—not from effort, but joy. Alive, truly alive, as if waking from years asleep.
Soon, Emily moved in. Newlyweds took her old flat.
