James pushed open the window and climbed onto the sill. The dark pavement below both called to him and terrified him.
Life can feel like a twisting forest path—you never know where it might lead or what waits beyond the next bend. James Whitmore never imagined he’d lose his happiness, only to find it again in the most unexpected way.
He hadn’t rushed into marriage. He wanted to find someone truly right. When he first saw Emily in the café, his heart skipped a beat—he just knew. Without hesitation, he walked over and introduced himself. They loved the same books, the same films, ice skating, and both dreamed of a happy, close-knit family with children.
Everything went as hoped—except they never had children. Emily visited doctors, tried treatments, even made pilgrimages, refusing to give up hope. Then, one day, she believed she was pregnant. She waited before going to the hospital, not wanting to be wrong. Only when her belly grew did she finally visit the clinic.
It wasn’t a baby. It was a tumour. Every time James accompanied Emily to the oncology ward, he saw the hollow stares of the patients, as if they were listening for something inside themselves. Soon, he saw the same look in Emily’s eyes.
James never left her side. First, he took his holiday allowance, then unpaid leave, until the GP took pity and signed him off work. But his boss called him in—either return or resign. James handed in his notice.
Day after day, he cared for Emily. He held her hand as she struggled to breathe, begging God not to take her from him—or to take him too.
Nothing helped. Three months later, Emily was gone.
After the funeral, James returned to their empty flat. Her dressing gown still hung on the back of the chair. He kept hoping she’d walk in and put it on. Her boots stood in the hallway, next to the sheepskin coat they’d bought last spring at a steep discount. Everywhere he looked, he saw Emily—his love, his life, gone too soon.
He buried his face in the pillow, still carrying her scent, and sobbed. Later, he went out and bought two bottles of whisky. The next morning, he barely dragged himself out of bed. The pain that had faded overnight rushed back tenfold. He poured the unfinished drink down the sink. Not that it mattered. Without Emily, he didn’t care what happened to him.
The days were bearable, but the nights were unbearable. One evening, he stood by the window, staring at the city lights. What was keeping him here? The flat? To hell with it. No job, no wife, no children. James opened the window and climbed onto the sill. The dark pavement below both called and terrified him. Fourth floor—not too high. And if he didn’t die?
The doorbell rang. For a split second, James looked down—then stepped back inside and answered. His neighbour, Mrs. Thompson, stood there.
“Can’t sleep either, love? Just wanted to check on you. It’s been too quiet. And why’s there a draft? Window open? Don’t tell me you were—” She studied his face, worried.
“Just airing the place,” he said calmly.
“Right. Well, don’t do anything stupid. Jump out that window, and you’ll never see Emily again. Suicide’s a sin, you know. God won’t let you be together in heaven.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Thompson.”
He finally got rid of her. But the urge to jump had faded. He’d heard the same about suicide.
He lay awake, thinking. By morning, he’d stuffed a bag with a few things, including the photo where he and Emily were frozen in time together. Savings gone—all spent on her treatment. His gaze caught on her abandoned dressing gown. He turned away and left.
Locking the flat, he knocked on Mrs. Thompson’s door.
“Where you off to?” she asked, eyeing his bag.
“My mum’s. Can’t stay here. I’ll drink myself to death.”
“Good idea. How long?”
“Dunno. Could you keep an eye on the place?” He handed her the keys. “You’ve got my number. Call if anything comes up.” He waved and hurried downstairs.
Sitting in the car, he gathered himself. Then he turned the key and pulled away. On the motorway, he slammed the accelerator, a reckless thought flashing—just let go of the wheel. But innocent people might die.
Two hundred miles passed in a blur. For the first time in months, he felt light. His hometown shocked him—narrow, grubby streets. He usually visited in summer when the trees softened everything. He’d forgotten the muddy mess of spring in a small provincial town.
There it was—home. He parked by the front garden. The gate hinges squeaked. His mother rushed out, squinting at the unexpected guest, then gasped and ran to him.
“James! Oh, love! You didn’t call. You’re alone?”
He hugged her, breathing in that familiar scent, warmth flooding his chest. He thought he’d cried himself dry at the funeral, but his eyes stung again.
They talked for hours, catching up. His mum grieved for Emily, sympathised, tried to comfort him with home-cooked meals.
“It’s good you’re here. Home heals. What’s there for you alone? Remember when you’d run home from school…”
Her soothing voice calmed him. This house held no memories of Emily—here, the pain dulled.
That evening, he noticed lights in the neighbour’s window.
“Mum, who lives there now? Didn’t Mrs. Lawson pass?”
“Oh, that’s Charlotte. Came back last year, divorced. Her husband gambled, got himself locked up. Brought her little one with her. And there’s a boy—ten years old. Took him in. Ran away from drunken parents. No papers, no school.”
She lowered her voice. “He’d been through hell. Charlotte’s terrified social services’ll take him. She works as a cleaner at Tesco. The boy watches her son when she’s out. Sometimes I help. What else is there for me? No grandkids of my own—” She caught herself. “Sorry, love.”
“Don’t worry, Mum.”
That night, James tossed and turned, thoughts jumping between Emily and Charlotte—his first love, who’d chosen another boy back in sixth form.
The next day, he saw her through the window. She hadn’t changed much, but his heart stayed steady. A few nights later, a flickering light woke him—like the sun had crashed to earth.
“Fire next door!” His mother burst in.
He bolted outside, barely grabbing his shoes. People were already running with buckets. Fire engine sirens wailed in the distance. Charlotte stood by the fence in her nightdress, clutching her terrified toddler. Another boy clung to her side.
“Charlotte, come inside. You can’t help. It’s freezing.” He led her and the boys to his mother’s house.
His mum fussed, gave Charlotte her dressing gown, put the kettle on.
“What happened?”
“No idea. I woke up coughing—smoke everywhere. Just grabbed the boys and ran. Didn’t take anything. All our documents—gone. What do we do now?” Charlotte burst into tears; her son wailed too.
“Give him here, I’ll put him down.” His mother glanced at the older boy.
“Not tired,” he muttered.
“Was the house insured?” James asked when they were alone.
Charlotte shrugged.
“We’ll sort it. Stay with us for now. Bit cramped, but—”
“I couldn’t.”
“My flat in the city’s empty. We’ll get your papers fixed, and if you want, we can register the boy as yours. Give him your name.”
“Won’t they check?”
“Dunno. Worth a try. He needs school. The rest we’ll figure out.”
He almost added that only death was irreversible but stopped himself.
They stayed with his mum for days while the police inspected the fire. Then James drove Charlotte and the boys to his flat. His mother packed them off with jars of preserves.
By the time they arrived, James was already planning—find a job, sort Charlotte’s documents, get the boy into school. For the first time in months, he had purpose.
He opened the flat door, ushering them in. The silence shattered under the boys’ shouts and footsteps, retreating like darkness before light.
He showed Charlotte around.
“You take the big room—kids need space. I’ll take the small one.”
“I can’t. This was a mistake.”
“I wasn’t coming back anyway. Why leave it empty?”
He lifted Emily’s dressing gown from the chair and put it away.
“Still can’t believe she’s gone. Left it there like she’d walk in any second. You’ve got nothing to wear—her clothes are still in the wardrobe…”
“I can’t wear them.” Charlotte shook her head.
“Make yourselves at home. I’ll get the spare key from Mrs. Thompson.”
“FoundThe days blurred into months, and in the quiet moments when James found himself laughing at the boys’ antics or meeting Charlotte’s eyes across the kitchen table, he realized life had given him a second chance—not to replace what he’d lost, but to weave her memory into a new kind of love.
