*Diary Entry*
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver muttering curses as he swerved around water-filled craters, even veering into the oncoming lane now and then. Few passengers rode at this hour—most were still at work.
Edward stared out the window at the grimy, melting snow. Soon it would all disappear, and summer wouldn’t be far behind. Another bump shook the bus, and the driver swore again. “At this rate, we’ll lose the wheels.”
Finally, the cemetery gates appeared ahead, rows of headstones stretching behind them.
Every visit left Edward with the same heavy sense of inevitability, of life slipping away too quickly. The thought that one day he, too, would rest here was unbearable. He didn’t come out of longing—just obligation. It was expected: visit the graves of loved ones on certain dates. Guilt nagged at him, and he sighed loudly.
The bus stopped, doors hissing open. Passengers filed out, stretching their legs before drifting toward stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. Edward wandered past, searching for real ones. The garish, wax-coated blooms made his eyes ache. Near the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four flowers and entered the cemetery. Paths drowned in puddles; even the snow along the edges squelched underfoot. Too late, he regretted wearing his old winter boots.
He reached the edge near the woods and turned left. His wife’s grave was easy to find—marked by a simple cross. *Time for a headstone. Or should I wait? Let our son arrange it later?* Temporary crosses were rare now. The place had filled with new graves since his last visit in autumn.
Stepping over the low fence, he sank into the wet snow, tamping it down. His feet were already soaked.
“Hello, Lily.”
From the faded photo tucked by the cross, his wife smiled back. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six when it was taken.
He recalled that birthday—rushing out for flowers, returning to find her awake, dressed in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on at once, beaming. He’d snapped the photo just then. Felt like yesterday.
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, figuring where to place the carnations.
The grave was littered with artificial blooms, still bright as if freshly laid. Kneeling, he plucked a yellowed branch from the snow near the cross, replanted it at the foot of the grave, and tucked his carnations in its place. The frozen earth wouldn’t take the stems; they’d topple once the snow melted. They looked frail beside the gaudy plastic, but at least they were real.
“I miss you. But I can’t come often—forgive me. *I* deserved this place, not you. Life had other plans…”
He spoke for a long time, sharing updates until his feet went numb. Now and then, crows cawed, sharp against the silence, deepening the gloom.
“I’d better go, love. Wore these old boots, and now my socks are soaked. No one to scold me anymore. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Clean up the grave, bring a new photo—this one’s too lovely. Forgive me… for everything.” He sighed, stepped back over the fence, and walked away without looking back.
At the stop, a handful of people waited. By the time the bus arrived, his toes were numb.
Home at last, he peeled off wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two mugs of tea with honey. Pulling on dry wool socks, he turned on the telly and lay on the sofa. Some film played. The tea lulled him into sleep…
***
Emma joined the construction site fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine. Edward couldn’t help staring. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet he couldn’t look away. What was he to do? Avoid her?
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emma shivered in her coat collar, streetlamps glinting in her wide eyes. He stole glances until the bus came, then shoved past others to sit beside her.
“Evening, Emma. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“No. Dad always got a real one. Left it on the balcony ’til the 30th, then we’d all decorate. The smell! Made the whole flat festive.”
“But today *is* the 30th. You’ve got a real tree waiting?”
Emma laughed—bright, musical. Edward was entranced.
“Parents live far now. Mine’s artificial. I’ll unpack it tonight, hang sweets like Mum used to. Then tea and admiring my handiwork.” She laughed again.
He pictured it: the cosy room, the tree, Emma rosy-cheeked, stretching to place a star… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help decorate?” The question startled even him.
“Why?” She flushed.
“To help. Then tea.” He winced at his boldness. What must she think? He rushed on: “You made it sound so nice. My wife and son did ours weeks ago—just walked in, and there it was. Feels… routine now. I miss the magic.”
“Alright. Come on, then,” she said simply, meeting his gaze.
They built the tree together, laughing as they tangled tinsel. It felt like he’d known her forever. Later, over tea, he left reluctantly.
On New Year’s Eve, he returned. The lie he’d told Lily was hazy now—no, he remembered *exactly* her knowing glance. But he couldn’t stay away. Emma pulled him like a current.
Soon, he visited regularly. Emma never questioned it, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes—the same look Lily wore when he came home.
One evening, resolved to confess, he walked in to find Lily in tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, bracing for the confrontation. Maybe it was for the best.
But she choked out, “Your mum’s in hospital. It’s bad.”
After that, priorities shifted. His mother moved in, too frail for independence. Without hesitation, Lily quit her job to care for her.
Edward went to Emma to end it. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life or abandon Lily. She was young—she should marry, have children, not waste time on a married man.
In the hallway, she hugged him tightly before shoving him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself for a coward. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then one day, he saw her with a young intern—glasses, handsome. Jealousy gnawed at him for days. Soon after, Emma married him.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Lily rested a month before returning to work. A routine check-up found a tumour. Then came surgery, chemo, more surgery…
At a bus stop, he ran into Emma again.
“You look awful. Tired, or is it worse?” she asked, studying him.
“First Mum, now Lily. My fault. That day I meant to leave her, Mum fell ill—like a sign. Then Lily… God’s punishing me for loving you, for nearly walking out.”
Emma paled. “Then He punished me too.”
“Why *you*?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband left me over it.” She turned away.
“Sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat together in silence.
Lily, worn thin by illness, rarely rose now. Just shuffled to the loo, clinging to walls. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why her? Why not him?
“Anything you want? I’ll get it. You’ve barely eaten.” He took her brittle hand—so small in his.
“Just sit with me,” she wheezed. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to leave. Dreading it.”
“There’s no one. Not for years. Why didn’t you say?”
“Why? I loved you. Maybe… I caused this. I wished my tears would drown her. Instead, I damned myself. I even *glad* your mum got sick—it kept you here. You *were* leaving, weren’t you?”
“No. Never,” he lied, avoiding her gaze.
“Doesn’t matter now. If I’d known… You’re still young. If she’s free, go to her when I’m gone.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll get better—” His voice broke.
Watching her fade was worse than any punishment.
Two days later, Lily was gone.
***
Edward woke from a dream where he’d relived it all—every detail, every mistake.
In the kitchen, he gulped water, heart racing. Stared at the city lights. What’He closed the diary, knowing some regrets would never fade, just as the ache of the past would never loosen its grip.
