The bus jolted over potholes, the driver muttering curses as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the oncoming lane at times. There weren’t many passengers—just the usual weekday crowd.
Gerald stared out the window at the grimy, half-melted snow. A little longer, and it would be gone completely, summer just around the corner. Another bump sent the bus lurching, and the driver swore again.
“Bloody hell, we’ll lose the wheels at this rate.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond them.
Every time Gerald came here, the same heavy sense of inevitability settled over him—the fleetingness of life, the unshakable knowledge that one day, he’d rest here too. He didn’t come out of devotion, just obligation. You were supposed to visit, mark the dates. Guilt prickled at him, and he let out a sharp sigh.
The bus ground to a halt. The doors hissed open, and passengers stretched their legs before moving toward the stalls selling flowers along the fence. Gerald walked slowly, scanning for fresh blooms. The garish plastic wreaths, wax-coated and glittering, made his eyes ache. At the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The paths were waterlogged, and though he tried to avoid the worst of it, slush seeped into his old winter boots.
Near the edge of the woods, he turned left. He found his wife’s grave easily—the wooden cross still stood out among the newer stone markers. “Should’ve replaced it by now,” he thought. “Maybe wait, let our son arrange a proper one for both of us later?” Around him, the temporary crosses had all but disappeared. The place had grown crowded since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low iron rail, feet sinking into the wet snow. The chill seeped through his socks.
“Hello, Margaret.”
A faded photograph in a frame by the cross smiled back at him. He loved that picture—it was how he remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six then.
He remembered that birthday—slipping out at dawn for flowers, returning to find her already dressed in a new frock, beaming as she put on the gold earrings he’d given her. He’d snapped the photo right then. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He shifted the carnations, looking for a spot.
The grave was buried in artificial flowers, all still unnaturally bright despite the years. He bent, tugged a brittle stem of yellow blooms from the snow at the foot of the cross, and tucked his carnations into the damp earth. They’d freeze, topple over soon enough—but at least they were real.
“I miss you. Wish I could come more. Forgive me. I deserved to be here, not you. Life’s got a cruel way of working out…”
He talked for a long time, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his toes went numb. The caw of crows cut through the silence, making the place feel even lonelier.
“Better go, love. Wore these old boots and soaked my feet. No one to scold me for it now.” He sighed. “I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Clean up then, bring a new photo—same one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me.”
He stepped back over the rail and walked toward the gates without looking back.
At the bus stop, a handful of people waited. By the time he boarded, he couldn’t feel his toes.
Home at last, he peeled off the wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two cups of tea with honey. Pulled on dry wool socks, turned on the telly, and stretched out on the sofa. Some film was playing. The warmth of the tea lulled him into a doze…
***
Emily had started at the construction site fresh out of college—young, bright-eyed, freckles dusting her nose, a smile like sunshine breaking through clouds. Gerald couldn’t help staring. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet he couldn’t look away. What was he supposed to do, pretend she wasn’t there?
One evening, just before Christmas, they ran into each other at the bus stop. She was bundled into her coat collar, streetlamp light flickering in her wide eyes. Gerald stole glances until the bus arrived. He elbowed his way on after her and took the seat beside her.
“Evening, Emily. Heading home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Used to keep it on the balcony till Christmas Eve, then we’d all decorate together. The whole flat smelled like pine—felt like proper holidays.”
“Today *is* Christmas Eve. Got a tree waiting?”
She laughed, bright and clear. Gerald was mesmerized.
“Parents live miles away now. I’ve got a fake one. Going home to dig it out, hang the baubles. Always put sweets on it—Mum’s tradition. Then tea and a proper admire.” She laughed again.
Gerald pictured it—the tiny flat, the twinkling tree, Emily reaching up on tiptoe to hang a star… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Mind if I tag along? Help decorate?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Why?”
“Fancy some holiday cheer. My wife and son did ours weeks ago—no surprise left.” He flushed at his own boldness. God, what must she think?
But she just studied him a moment, then shrugged. “Alright, then.”
They assembled the tree, draped it in tinsel, laughing as they bumped elbows. It felt like he’d known her forever. The way she smiled—she felt it too. After tea, he left, though every fibre of him wanted to stay.
On New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t even recall the lie he’d told Margaret—no, that wasn’t true. He remembered *exactly* what he’d said, the way she’d looked at him like she already knew. But he couldn’t stop himself. Emily drew him in like a riptide, and he had no will to fight it. Didn’t *want* to.
The visits became routine. Emily never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes—the same sadness he saw in Margaret’s when he came home.
One evening, he resolved to confess. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Margaret would cry, rage—fine. Just don’t let her keep him from their son. He stepped inside, and she rushed to him, face streaked with tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startled—had she guessed?
But no. His mother was in hospital. Critical. The reckoning would have to wait.
Then came the nursing home visits, the slow decline. Margaret agreed without hesitation to let Mum move in, though the burden would fall on her. Gerald couldn’t leave now, not with Mum depending on her. They hired a carer, but Margaret came home early one day to find the woman drunk. Sacked her on the spot.
No more strangers. Margaret quit her job, took over the care herself.
Gerald went to Emily to end it. Apologised for muddling her life, for being too weak to choose. Told her she deserved marriage, children—not this.
In the hallway, she pressed against him, held on a long moment before pushing away.
He walked home cursing himself. At work, they exchanged stiff nods. Then one day, he saw her leaving with a young intern—glasses, tousled hair. The jealousy nearly choked him. For days, he moved like a ghost. Soon after, she married the bespectacled bloke.
Mum died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Margaret took a month to rest, then went for a medical check-up. The tumour was already advanced. Then came the surgeries, the chemo, the slow wasting away…
One evening at the bus stop, he ran into Emily.
“You look awful. Is it bad?”
“Mum first, now Margaret. My fault, all of it. I was going to leave her that day—the *day* Mum collapsed. Like some sick joke. Buried Mum, then Margaret got sick. God’s punishing me.”
Emily went pale. “Then He punished me too.”
“Why *you*?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. Left me.” She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” was all Gerald could say.
They sat side by side on the bus in silence, each lost in their own guilt.
Margaret barely stirred from bed now—just shuffled to the loo and back. Frail as a bird. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why *her*? Why not him?
“Anything you want? Just say.” He took her thin hand—it disappeared in his grasp.
“Just stay.” She breathed laboured. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to leave. Scared, but waiting.”
And standing there, Gerald finally understood—some debts could never be repaid, some mistakes never undone, only carried until the ground took you too.
