The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring—that familiar evening scent seeped through door cracks, settling on shoulders like memories that refuse to fade. The same smell had lingered here when Martha Alice was still young, when children rattled through the halls, pots clattered in the kitchen, and life, though modest, was loud and vibrant. The smell of her past. Her time. Her lost ordinary days, never to return.
She stood by the postboxes, gripping her key so tightly it might as well have been the key to something grander than just her flat. Above her door, a dim bulb flickered, casting a pale blue glow on the peeling ceiling. Beyond that door waited only walls, the rustle of an old tablecloth, and her own breath—suddenly deafening in the quiet.
Once, Peter had greeted her. Grumbling that she was late again, that the soup would be cold. But his eyes had always shone. He’d take her coat, put the kettle on, clasp her hand—as if every time, he was just glad she’d come home. Even in the years when his legs barely held him, he’d still rise to meet her. Because he knew: the greeting mattered most.
After the funeral, Martha Alice returned to the same flat. Everything was in place—framed photos, the armchair by the window, his teacup, her apron. But it all felt like props. The warmth had vanished, as if someone had yanked the plug from the socket, leaving only hollow shapes where meaning used to live.
The house began to feel too big. As if the walls were slipping away, leaving her alone in the cold, expanding air. Even the dripping tap sounded louder, more ominous. Every evening, approaching the door, she’d catch herself holding her breath—just in case, just maybe… she’d hear his voice again: “Where’ve you been dawdling, Martha?”
But today was special. Her eighty-fifth birthday. An age when surprises are rare, but hope lingers. A call, perhaps. A card. Something alive. But the phone stayed silent. Old friends were long gone. The neighbour, Aunt Eleanor, had moved to her daughter’s in Manchester. Her own daughter? In Spain. They called rarely, squeezed between meetings and grandchildren’s lessons. And the grandson? Sent a sticker: “Happy bday, Nan,” before vanishing back into his screen.
She unlocked the door, passed the mirror without glancing. The kitchen was just as she left it: a cup, the radio, her pills, the empty windowsill where violets once sat. She turned on the radio. An old love song played—the very one Peter had hummed when he proposed, right there on the dance floor. Back then, she’d laughed through tears. Now, she did the same—just alone. Her throat tightened, not from sorrow, but from the impossibility of turning back time.
“As long as the light’s on, I’m still here,” she said aloud, pouring tea. As if Peter might hear. Playful, but with the quiet resolve that only years can bring.
Just then, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then—gone. The kitchen plunged into darkness, the air thick and oddly still, like childhood nights when her father hadn’t come home from the mines, and she’d hid under the blanket, believing if she stayed hidden, fear wouldn’t find her.
She walked to the lamp. Touched the shade. Warm, but lifeless. Without a thought, she yanked open the drawer. There, in the corner—just as always—a spare bulb. Peter used to say, “Light’s like breath. While it’s there, we live.” She smirked. Stepped onto the stool, twisted the new bulb in. A click—and warmth flooded the room. Soft. Gentle. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat. Took a sip. And thought, “If I can still light it, I’m not alone.”
Then—the buzzer rang. Her heart lurched. Who’d come at this hour? She shuffled to the intercom, pressed the screen. A woman in her thirties peered back, cheeks pink with cold, a red knitted hat slightly askew.
“Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m from the sixth floor. Katie. You don’t know me, but—it’s my birthday too. Thought maybe… we could have tea? I made a cake. Wonky, but homemade.”
Martha Alice studied the girl’s face. Something clenched, then loosened in her chest. She pressed the button. The lock clicked. Her heart beat a little faster—not from fear, but the sudden sense that something was still possible.
The bulb above the door flickered again. But differently this time. Like a sign. As if Peter were winking down from somewhere: “Live, Martha. While you still can.”
And she smiled.
Because as long as the light burns, someone still comes. And life—goes on. Maybe in new faces, new voices. But it goes on.
