The bus jolted over potholes. The driver swore under his breath, swerving around water-filled craters, sometimes even veering into the opposite lane. Few passengers rode at this hour—midday on a weekday.
James stared out the window at the blackened, slushy snow. A little longer, and it would melt completely, then summer would be just around the corner. Another bump sent the bus lurching, and the driver cursed again.
“At this rate, we’ll lose the wheels.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond.
Every visit filled James with that same heavy sense of life’s fleeting inevitability. The thought that one day he, too, would rest here was unbearable. He came not out of longing but obligation—duty demanded he visit loved ones on certain dates. Guilt gnawed at him, and he sighed sharply.
The bus halted by the gates. The doors hissed open, and passengers stepped out, stretching stiff legs. Most headed straight for the line of plastic flowers propped along the fence. James wandered past, searching for real ones. The garish wax-coated petals made his eyes ache. At the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and entered the cemetery. Paths drowned in puddles. He skirted them, but even the snow along the edges squelched underfoot. He regretted wearing his old winter boots too late.
Near the treeline, he turned left. His wife’s grave was easy to spot—the wooden cross stood out. “Time for a proper headstone. Or should I wait? Maybe our son will arrange one for us both later.” All the temporary crosses nearby were gone. He scanned the rows of the dead. So many new graves since last autumn.
He stepped over the low iron rail and sank into the snow, stamping it down. His socks were already damp.
“Hello, Emily.”
From the faded photo in the frame by the cross, his wife smiled at him. He loved that picture—the way he always remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six when it was taken.
He recalled that birthday. He’d dashed out for flowers that morning, and when he returned, Emily was already up, dressed in a new frock. He’d gifted her gold earrings. She’d put them on right away, beaming. He’d snapped the photo then. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” James hesitated, figuring where to place the carnations.
The grave was already crowded with artificial blooms, stuck upright in the soil. They hadn’t faded, as if placed just yesterday.
He bent, plucked a single yellow flower from the snow by the cross, and tucked it at the foot of the grave. In its place, he wedged the carnations. Frozen earth wouldn’t take them—the stems would snap. The snow would melt soon anyway, and they’d topple. They looked humble next to the gaudy plastic, but at least they were alive.
“I miss you. But I can’t come often. Forgive me. It’s me who should be here, not you. Life had other plans…”
He spoke at length, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his feet numbed. Crows cawed now and then, deepening the gloom.
“I’d best go, love. Wore these old boots, and now my feet are soaked. No one to scold me anymore. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Tidy things up, bring a new photo—just like this one. You’re so lovely here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped over the rail, and walked off without looking back.
A few people already waited at the stop. By the time the bus came, his toes had gone numb.
Home at last, he peeled off wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two mugs of honeyed tea. Dry wool socks on, telly murmuring, he lay on the sofa. Some film played. The tea’s warmth lulled him toward sleep…
***
Lucy joined their construction crew fresh from college. Young, bright-eyed, freckle-nosed, her smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. James couldn’t help staring. Married with a son in primary school, yet this girl held his gaze. What could he do—turn away?
One pre-Christmas evening, they met at the bus stop. Lucy burrowed into her coat collar. Streetlamps glittered in her wide eyes. James stole glances. When the bus came, he nudged through the crowd after her and took the seat beside.
“Evening, Lucy. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always bought a real one. It’d lie on the balcony till Christmas Eve. Then we’d all decorate it together. The smell—it made everything feel festive.”
“But today *is* Christmas Eve. Got a real one waiting?”
Lucy laughed, bright and clear. James watched, enchanted.
“My parents live far off. Mine’s artificial. I’ll unpack it tonight, string it with sweets—like Mum used to. Then tea and admiring.” She laughed again.
James pictured it: the room, the tree, Lucy rosy-cheeked, reaching to crown it with a bauble… the kettle humming cosily in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words surprised even him.
“Why?”
“Help with the tree. Share that tea.” He flushed at his boldness. What must she think? He hurried on:
“The way you described it… My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Came home to it already done. Feels routine now. I miss the excitement.”
“All right. Come along, then.” Simple as that.
He assembled the tree swiftly; they decked it with baubles and tinsel, laughing, bumping elbows. As if they’d known each other forever. He sensed she felt it too. After tea… he left, though he didn’t want to.
New Year’s Eve, he returned. Couldn’t recall what lie he’d told Emily—no, he remembered perfectly. The way she’d looked at him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t stop himself. Lucy pulled him like gravity. No will to resist. No desire to, really.
So he kept visiting. Lucy never asked questions. Only sometimes, he caught sadness in her eyes—the same sadness he saw in Emily’s when he came home.
Once, resolved to confess, he marched home. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Emily would cry, rage. Fine. Just don’t let her keep him from their son. He stepped inside—Emily rushed to him, tearful.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startled she’d guessed.
Maybe it was for the best.
She said his mother was in hospital, critically ill. Suddenly, confessions didn’t matter.
Then they took his mother in—too frail to live alone. Emily agreed without hesitation, though the burden would fall on her.
Now James couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon his mother to Emily. They hired a carer once, but Emily came home early and found her drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more risks. Emily quit her job to care full-time.
James went to Lucy to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck her life or desert his wife and mother. Lucy was young—she should marry, have children, not waste time with a married man.
In the hallway, she pressed against him. They stood like that a long while before she pushed him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself for a coward. At work, they nodded stiffly, avoiding eye contact. Then one day, he saw Lucy with a young intern—handsome, bespectacled. Jealousy tore at him. For days, he moved through life like a ghost. Soon after, Lucy married the man.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Emily rested a month, then returned to work. A routine medical flagged a tumor. Then came the whirlwind: surgery, chemo, more surgery, more chemo…
Once, at the bus stop, he ran into Lucy.
“You look awful. Tired or… worse?” Her eyes were worried.
“First Mum, now Emily. My fault. You know, I was about to leave her that day—then Mum landed in hospital. Buried her, and now Emily… God’s punishing me for loving you, for wanting out.”
Lucy paled.
“Then He punished me too.”
“You? Why?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. He left.” She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” was all James could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side in silence.
Emaciated from illness, Emily barely rose now. Just shuffled wall-to-wall to the loo. James couldn’t meet her eyes. Why punish *her* for *his* sins?
“Anything you fancy? You’ve hardly eaten.” He perched on the bed, took her frail hand—it vanished in his.
“Nothing. Just sit with me.” Her breath labored. “I knew about her. Don’t askHe lived the rest of his days in quiet solitude, learning too late that love is not just a feeling, but a choice—and every choice has its price.
