Daniel was slow to realize that standing on a stool with a rope in his hands might give the wrong impression. He sat on the edge of his bed, barefoot, in just his boxers. Again, he thought he heard his mother calling his name.
“Daniel, love… Daniel…”
He’d been waking up to her voice almost every night, even though she’d passed three weeks ago. He knew it couldn’t be real, yet he’d sit up, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. Daniel had worked from home to care for her. He’d tried hiring a nurse, but after three days, she’d vanished, stealing his mother’s gold jewelry and the handful of cash he’d left in the drawer. He never risked it again.
Working at his computer, he’d strain to hear her slightest murmur, rushing to her side at the faintest sound. The exhaustion often dragged him under; more than once, he’d fallen asleep at his desk. That final night, he’d woken to her voice, bolted to her room—only to find her still, no breath left. He wept, begging forgiveness for the relief that crept in alongside his grief. Her suffering was over. He was free.
But three weeks alone had brought no joy—just a hollow weight pressing down on him.
She’d always been lively, humming while ironing or tidying. Youthful, even as she aged. He couldn’t imagine her fading.
Sleep was impossible now. He checked his watch—half six. Outside, the grey autumn haze clung thick to the streetlights, seeping into his room, dulling the colors. Quiet. Empty. Dim.
He felt grey too, lifeless. Daniel dressed and stepped to her door. He’d only entered once since her death, to pick out her funeral dress. Now he wrenched it open. The stale reek of medicine, sweat, and sickness hit him. Avoiding the crumpled bedsheets, he yanked the curtains apart and shoved the window wide.
Cool, damp air rushed in, mingling with the waking city’s hum. The room sharpened, colors brightening inexplicably. Energy surged through him. He stripped the bed, tossed the sheets in a heap with her dressing gown—still waiting on the chair. The pile grew. He hauled it to the washing machine, then returned with a bin, sweeping pills and empty blister packs into it. The glass she’d sipped from last joined them.
He smoothed a fresh cover over the bed, wiped the dust away, mopped the floor. The room didn’t feel alive, but it breathed easier. Heartened, he cleaned the whole flat.
The kettle whistled as he admired his work. Outside, the sun fought through the clouds, a jagged strip of blue peeking through. His spirits lifted.
The fridge was empty. He couldn’t recall his last proper meal. Near the end, his mother could only stomach thin, blended food. He’d eaten the same, too drained to cook for himself. Later, he’d picked at funeral leftovers. Now, only a half-empty jar of pickled cucumbers floated in mouldy brine beside a bottle of sour milk. He binned them.
Black coffee turned his stomach. He shrugged on a jacket, pocketed his card, and took out the rubbish. On the way back, he stopped at the shop—bread, milk, pasta, a few slices of ham, apples. He could’ve bought more, but he held back.
At home, he boiled pasta and wolfed down two ham sandwiches. The washing machine beeped.
The laundry didn’t all fit in the bathroom. No balcony, no drier. Scratching his head, he eyed the living room. Only one option—string up a line. Who’d see? He dug out a coil of twine from the hall cupboard, where his mum had kept odd bits “just in case.”
The thought of Lucy surfaced unwelcomely. They’d dated for two years. His mum hadn’t objected to marriage—he’d been the hesitant one. He loved her, but too much time together grated. Lucy talked of weddings, planned their future. Maybe that was it—her relentless practicality.
His mum had warned: *If not now, never.* He’d finally relented—then she fell ill. Lucy postponed the wedding herself. Who’d want a dying mother-in-law?
At first, she visited, helped cook. Then came excuses—work, busyness. Calls dwindled, then stopped. He hadn’t had time to call her either. What was there to say?
When his mum died, he’d rung Lucy, invited her to the funeral. Feeble condolences followed; she never came. Honestly? No loss.
Daniel surveyed the room. Right—tie one end to the radiator, the other… He hammered a nail into the doorframe. Thank God they’d kept the old painted wood, not swapped it for cheap laminate. Pleased with his ingenuity, he climbed the stool, looping the twine.
*”Would this hold my weight?” His hands stilled. “Christ, where did that come from?”*
High heels clicked outside. A new neighbour—young, pretty. He’d seen her once. The elderly couple who’d lived there before had decamped to their cottage, renting the place out.
Normally, her routine was predictable—door slam, heels, lock clack. Return hours later, reverse. No visitors. No evenings out. A persistent whiff of perfume lingered in the hall. He’d noted it idly, too wrapped in his own grief to care.
Now the heels paused at his door. He stood on the stool, listening. The door creaked open. A slender woman gaped at him, eyes wide with alarm.
Only then did he grasp how it looked—stool, rope in hand.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but—could you help me?”
Daniel jumped down. She retreated. No surprise—he looked wrecked. Unshaven, hair wild, shadows under his eyes. Stained T-shirt, hole in the side. The picture of a man ready to end it all.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gruffly.
“I think I lost my keys.” She rummaged in her bag, voice small.
Daniel frowned. How’d she open the front door without them? Unless he’d forgotten to lock it.
“No,” she sighed, meeting his gaze. “How do I get in?”
“Call the letting agency. A locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track.
“Fine. I’ll try.” He grabbed tools from the cupboard and jimmied the lock.
Her stare prickled his neck. He turned.
“Gonna watch? Wait inside. Coffee’s still warm.”
After a hesitation, her heels clicked away. An hour later, sweat-drenched, he wrenched the door open. She thanked him stiffly but lingered.
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” He opened the window wider.
As she fished out cigarettes, a jingle came from her bag. *Keys.* The realization hit—she’d faked it. Thought he was some tragic loser about to hang himself. Sacrificed her lock to stop him. He said nothing, just remembered the wet laundry. Climbing the stool, he secured the twine, fetched the basin, and started pegging clothes. She watched, making no move to leave.
“I heard about your mum,” she said.
“Three weeks ago.” He flicked a sock over the line. “And no, I wasn’t planning to off myself. Do I look that pathetic?”
“Pretty much,” she said bluntly.
“Call a locksmith tomorrow. I broke your lock.” He deflected, cheeks warm.
“I fried too much meat this morning. Fancy some?”
“Odd question. But sure.”
“Eleanor,” she offered. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours. I’ll shower first.”
After she left, he shaved, showered (ducking under the laundry), and pulled on clean jeans and a shirt. The mirror reflected someone almost presentable.
Eleanor’s flat smelled incredible—fried meat, fresh salad, wine glinting in glasses. He swallowed hard. She smirked. They ate, chatting lightly, skirting painful topics. Soon, they slipped into first names.
“When’s the last time you just… walked?” she asked. “It’s mild out.”
“Dunno.”
She cleared the table, arranging plates meticulously—largest to smallest, cup handles aligned. The towel hung dead-center on the rail before she adjusted it, twitchily.
“Why rent? You’re not a student.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t want to crawl back to my parents. Mum adores him—she’d nag me to reconcile.”
“Ah. Let me guess—control freak?”
“How’d you know?”
“You lined up the dishes. Towel had to be *just so.*”
“Observant.” She sighed. “Everything in its place—his motto. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Even sex was… scheduled. Like ticking a box.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Exactly. He’d rage if a fork was crooked. But hey, as Mum says, he’s *reliable.* And the meat?They married the next summer, and the scent of Eleanor’s perfume never faded from the hall.
