Oh, if only he’d known how things would turn out…
The bus rattled over potholes, the driver muttering curses under his breath as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the oncoming lane at times. Not many passengers rode at this hour—just the stragglers after a long workday.
Jonathan stared out the window at the grimy, half-melted snow clinging to the pavement. A little longer, and it’d be gone entirely. Then, before you knew it, summer would roll around. Another jolt sent the bus lurching, and the driver let out another colourful swear.
“Gonna shake the damn wheels loose at this rate.”
Finally, the cemetery’s iron fence came into view, lined with row upon row of headstones.
Every visit left Jonathan with the same heavy weight—the inevitability of it all, how fleeting life was. The thought that he’d end up here someday made his chest tighten. He didn’t come out of love, but obligation. That’s just what you did—visited the graves of loved ones on certain dates. Guilt prickled at him for feeling that way, and he sighed sharply.
The bus groaned to a halt. Passengers shuffled off, stretching stiff legs, and immediately made for the stalls of artificial flowers propped near the fence. Jonathan walked past, scanning for something real. The garish plastic blooms, stiff with wax, 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. Paths swam with slushy puddles. He tried to skirt around them, but even the packed snow at the edges squelched underfoot. Too late, he regretted wearing his old winter boots.
Near the tree line, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out by its simple wooden cross. “Should’ve gotten a proper headstone by now… Or maybe wait—let our son sort it for both of us later.” No temporary crosses remained nearby. The sea of graves had swollen since his last visit in autumn.
Stepping over the low border, he sank into the damp snow, stamping it down. Wetness seeped into his socks.
“Hello, Emily.”
The faded photo in its frame smiled back at him. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, even though she’d only been thirty-six when it was taken.
He recalled that birthday—dashing out for flowers before she woke, returning to find her already dressed up in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on right then, beaming, and he’d snapped the photo. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, figuring where to place the carnations.
The grave was already crowded with plastic blooms, wedged into the frozen earth. Bright, unchanging, as if they’d been left just hours ago.
Jonathan bent, plucking a brittle yellow stem from the snow near the cross, tucking it into the slush at the grave’s foot. In its place, he set the carnations. The ground was iron-hard—no way the fragile stems would stay. The snow would melt, and they’d topple. They looked humble next to the gaudy fake petals, but at least they were real.
“Miss you. Can’t bring myself to come often—sorry. Don’t be angry. I’m the one who should be here, not you. But life doesn’t care, does it?”
He talked for a while, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his feet went numb. Now and then, a crow cawed, slicing through the quiet. It only made the place feel lonelier.
“Gotta go, love. Wore these old boots, and now my feet are soaked. No one to scold me for it now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Tidy things up proper, bring a fresh photo—same one. Too beautiful here. Forgive me, Em.” He sighed, stepped back over the border, and walked off without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. By the time the bus arrived, he could barely feel his toes.
He barely made it home. Yanked off the sodden boots and socks, filled the kettle. Drank two cups of honeyed tea in quick succession, pulled on dry wool socks, flicked on the telly, and collapsed onto the sofa. Some film was playing. The warmth dragged him under…
***
Lucy had joined the construction site fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckles dusting her nose, and a smile like spring sunshine. Jonathan couldn’t help but watch her. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet there he was, unable to look away. What was he supposed to do? She was everywhere.
Just before New Year’s, they’d bumped into each other at the bus stop. Lucy huddled into her coat collar, streetlamp glow flickering in her wide eyes. He stole glances. When the bus came, he nudged his way in after her, sliding into the seat beside hers.
“Evening, Lucy. Heading home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” A pause. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Used to keep it on the balcony till the 30th, then we’d all decorate it together. The whole flat smelled like pine—just felt like Christmas, you know?”
“Today *is* the 30th… So, got a real one waiting?”
She laughed, clear and bright. His chest tightened.
“My parents live miles away. I’ve got a fake one. Soon as I’m home, I’ll dig out the box, stick it together, hang the baubles. Gotta have chocolates on it—Mum always did that. Then tea and just… staring at it, I guess.” Another laugh.
He could picture it—the cosy flat, the tree, Lucy stretching to place the star, cheeks flushed, kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Mind if I tag along?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“What?”
“Help with the tree. Then tea. Sorry—that’s forward.” He cringed. What must she think of him? He rushed on: “Just—the way you described it. My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Came home, and there it was. Kid couldn’t wait. Feels routine now. Could use some of that spark, you know?”
“Alright,” she said simply, those big eyes steady on his.
They’d assembled the tree in minutes, draping it in tinsel and baubles, jostling, laughing like old friends. Felt like he’d known her forever. Like she felt it too. Then tea… And he’d left, though every fibre screamed to stay.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall the excuse he’d given Emily—no, he remembered. The way she’d looked at him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t help himself. Lucy was a whirlpool, and he had no will to fight it. Didn’t *want* to, truth be told.
So he kept visiting. Lucy never asked questions. Just sometimes, he caught sadness in her eyes. Same look Emily gave him when he came home.
Once, he’d marched home, ready to confess. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Emily would cry, shout. Didn’t matter—just don’t take his son away. He’d stepped inside, and she’d rushed him, face streaked with tears.
“What’s wrong?” he’d asked, bracing—had she found out? Maybe it was for the best.
But no—his mum was in hospital. Critical. Suddenly, his confession didn’t seem so urgent.
Later, they’d moved her in. She couldn’t live alone. Emily agreed without hesitation, though the burden would fall on her.
Now Jonathan was trapped. Couldn’t leave his mum with Emily. They’d hired a carer, until Emily came home early one day and caught the woman drunk. Sacked her on the spot.
No more risks. No strangers. Emily quit her job to care for his mum full-time.
He went to Lucy to end it. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck her life or abandon his wife and mum. Lucy was young—she deserved marriage, kids, not some married bloke’s midlife crisis.
In the hallway, she’d pressed into him. Held on a long time before pushing him away.
Walking home, he’d cursed himself—coward, waste of space. At work, they exchanged stiff nods, averted eyes. Then one day, he saw Lucy with a young intern—glasses, handsome. Jealousy nearly split his ribs. Moped for days. Soon after, she married the guy.
His mum died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Emily rested a month, then returned to work. A routine medical flagged something. Then the whirlwind—surgery, chemo, more surgery…
Once, he ran into Lucy at the bus stop.
“You look awful. Tired or is it bad?” she asked, worryHe boarded the bus alone, the weight of his choices heavier than the snow still clinging to his boots, knowing some regrets outlast even the longest winter.
