William realised belatedly that standing on a stool with rope in hand might give the wrong impression. He had been sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet planted on the floor, when he thought he heard his mother’s voice again—soft, distant—just as he had nearly every night since her passing three weeks prior.
She had been bedridden for the last six months. William had taken his work home, unwilling to leave her side. He had tried hiring a carer once, but the woman fled after three days, stealing what little money he had along with his mother’s gold jewellery. After that, he dared not risk another.
Working at his desk, he would start at the slightest sound, rushing to her room at the faintest whisper. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin; more than once, he had dozed off mid-sentence, forehead pressed against the cold glare of the monitor. That last night, he had woken to her voice again—hurried to her—only to find her still and silent, already gone. He had wept then, begging forgiveness for the guilty relief that had risen alongside his grief. Free at last.
Yet three weeks of solitude had brought no joy, only a heavy, formless emptiness.
She had always been so lively, singing as she ironed or tidied the flat. It had been impossible to imagine illness bending her so cruelly in those final months.
Sleep was hopeless now. He glanced at the clock—half six. Outside, a dull autumn haze clung to the world, seeping through the curtains into his room, leaching colour from everything. Quiet. Hollow. Dim.
He felt grey too—a ghost of himself. Rising, he dressed mechanically and approached her door. He had only entered once since her death, to fetch the dress she would be buried in. Now he flung it open with something like defiance. The stale air struck him first—medicine, sweat, the lingering sourness of sickness. Avoiding the crumpled bed, he went straight to the window, threw back the curtains, and shoved the pane wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, carrying the faint hum of the waking city. And like that, the room seemed to breathe again—colours sharpened. William tore the sheets from the bed, trying not to inhale the dust that puffed up, and dumped them in a heap along with her dressing gown, still hanging over the chair as if waiting for her. He hauled the lot to the washing machine, then returned with a bin bag, sweeping bottles and pill packets from the bedside table in one motion. The glass she had sipped from joined them.
He made the bed fresh, wiped surfaces, mopped the floor. The room didn’t feel alive—but it was no longer a tomb. Buoyed, he kept going, scrubbing the whole flat until even the kitchen tiles gleamed.
By the time he stopped, the morning had hardened into day. Sunlight pierced the clouds in fractured lines, lifting his spirits. The fridge, when he checked, was nearly empty. He couldn’t recall the last proper meal he’d eaten. Towards the end, his mother could stomach only thin, mashed food, and he had lacked the will to cook anything else for himself. After the funeral, he had picked at leftovers brought by neighbours. Now, all that remained was a half-finished jar of pickled gherkins, its brine furred with mould, and a bottle of curdled milk. He binned both.
A strong coffee curdled unpleasantly in his stomach. Pulling on a coat, he took the rubbish out, then stopped at the corner shop on his way back—bread, milk, a pack of spaghetti, half a sausage, apples. He could have bought the whole aisle, but he restrained himself.
Home again, he set the pasta boiling and wolfed down two sausage sandwiches. The washing machine beeped faintly from the bathroom.
There wasn’t enough space on the drying rack for everything. No balcony, either. William scratched his head, pondering options before settling on stringing a line across the room. Who would see? And it would dry soon enough. He rummaged through the hallway cupboard, where his mother had kept odds and ends—string, tools, all the things too useful to throw away.
The thought of Emily surfaced unbidden. They had been together two years. His mother hadn’t objected to marriage, though William had dragged his feet. He couldn’t say why. He had loved her—or thought he had—but something about the weight of her expectations had chafed. Emily was always planning, mapping out their future with relentless precision.
His mother had warned him: *If not now, never.* He had relented—only for her to fall ill. Emily had postponed the wedding herself. Who wanted a sick mother-in-law?
At first, she had visited, helped cook. Then it was just calls, excuses about work. The gaps between them stretched longer until, finally, silence. He hadn’t minded much. When his mother died, he rang her anyway, half out of obligation. Emily offered vague condolences but didn’t come. He hadn’t expected her to.
William surveyed the room. Right—one end of the string tied to the radiator, the other… He found a nail in the cupboard and hammered it into the doorframe. Thank God they’d never replaced the old wooden doors with those flimsy modern ones. Climbing onto the stool, he looped the string tight.
*Would it hold my weight?* The thought came unbidden. He shook his head, irritated.
A click of heels sounded outside. New neighbours—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The elderly couple who’d lived there before had moved to the countryside for good, renting the place out. He’d heard her comings and goings—the snap of the latch, the sharp rhythm of her steps. She kept to herself. No visitors. No nights out. Just the lingering trace of perfume in the hallway.
Now the footsteps paused at his door.
He stood frozen on the stool, rope in hand, as the door creaked open. A slender woman with wide, startled eyes stared up at him.
*Oh. This looks bad.*
“Your door was open,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but—could you help me?”
William jumped down. She took a step back. He couldn’t blame her. He looked rough—unkempt stubble, dark circles, a stretched-out jumper with a hole near the hem. The sort of man who’d given up.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gruffly.
“I think I’ve lost my keys,” she murmured, rifling through her handbag.
William frowned. Hadn’t she just opened the front door? Or had he forgotten to lock it?
“Nope.” She looked up, big eyes rueful. “How do I get in now?”
“Call the letting agency. Get a locksmith,” he said flatly.
“It’s Sunday.”
*Sunday?* He’d lost track.
“Fine. Let me try.” He fished out a screwdriver and bent over the lock.
He could feel her watching. After a minute, he turned.
“Fancy standing there all day? Wait inside. Coffee’s still warm.”
She hesitated, then her heels tapped away.
An hour later, sweat-drenched and victorious, he announced, “You’re in.”
“Thanks,” she said, though she didn’t move. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.” He pushed the window wider.
As she rummaged, he heard the jingle of keys. *Ah.* She’d lied. Probably thought he was some suicidal wreck.
He said nothing, just climbed back onto the stool to finish hanging the laundry. She watched, cigarette forgotten.
“I heard about your mother,” she said finally. “I’m sorry.”
“Three weeks ago.” He kept his voice steady. “But I wasn’t planning to hang myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” she admitted.
“Call a locksmith tomorrow. I broke your lock.”
She exhaled. “I made too much roast this morning. Fancy some?”
“Why bother cooking it, then? Odd woman.” He paused. “Alright.”
“Lydia,” she said. “Shall I bring it here, or…?”
“Yours. Let me shower first.”
When she left, he shaved properly, showered under the still-drying laundry, and dressed in clean jeans and a shirt. The mirror showed a man almost recognisable.
Her flat smelled incredible—rich meat, wine, something herby. A salad, two glasses. He swallowed. She noticed and smirked.
They ate, talking lightly, skirting heavier things. At some point, they switched to first names.
“When did you last just… walk?” Lydia asked. “It’s dry out. Warm.”
“Can’t remember.”
She stood to clear the plates, arranging them with meticulous precision—bowls nested, handles aligned. A towel hung dead-centre on the rail before she nudged it off-kilter.
“Why rent?” he asked. “You’re not a student.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t want to go crawling home. Mum loves him—she’d just nag me to go back.”
“Let me guess. Too tidy?”
Her eyes widened. “How’d you know?”
“You lined up the platesWilliam laughed, took her hand, and said, “Let’s get some air,” as the last of the evening light spilled through the curtains, painting the room gold.
