The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring, that familiar evening scent seeping through door cracks, settling on her shoulders like a memory that refused to fade. The same scent had lingered here when Martha Greenwood was young, when children raced through the flat, pans clattered, and life—though humble—was loud and vivid. The smell of her past. Her time. Her lost ordinary, now forever out of reach.
She stood by the mailboxes, gripping her key so tightly it might have held more than just the way inside. Above her door, a dim bulb still flickered, casting a pale, bluish glow on the peeling ceiling. Behind that door waited only walls, the rustle of an old tablecloth, and her own breath—deafening in the silence.
Once, Peter had met her here. Grumbling that she was late again, that the stew would go cold. But his eyes had always shone. He’d take her coat, put the kettle on, clasp her hand—as if he was still surprised, every time, that she’d come home. Even in those final years, when his legs barely held him, he’d rise to greet her. Because he knew: the greeting mattered most.
After the funeral, Martha returned to the same flat. Everything was in its place—framed photos, the armchair by the window, his favourite mug, her apron. But it all felt like props. The warmth had vanished, as though someone had yanked the plug from the socket, cutting the current. Only hollow shapes remained, stripped of meaning.
The flat began to feel vast. Walls stretched away, leaving her adrift in the cold, expanding air. Even the dripping tap sounded louder, sharper. Each evening, she caught herself holding her breath at the door—just in case. Just once more. Just to hear his voice: *”Where’ve you been, Martha?”*
But today was different. Her eighty-fifth birthday. An age when surprises were scarce, but hope lingered. A call. A card. Something alive. The phone stayed silent. Old friends were gone. Mrs. Wilkins from next door had moved to her daughter’s in Manchester. Her own daughter? In Portugal. They rang rarely, hurried video calls between meetings and the grandchildren’s lessons. Her grandson? Sent a sticker—*”Grats, Nan”*—then vanished back into his screen.
She unlocked the door, passed the mirror without looking. The kitchen was unchanged: the radio, her pills, the empty sill where violets once bloomed. She switched on the receiver. An old wartime ballad drifted out—the same one Peter had hummed when he proposed, right on the dance floor. Back then, she’d laughed through tears. Now, she did the same—alone. Her throat tightened, but not from sorrow. From the sheer impossibility of return.
*”As long as the lamp burns, I’m here,”* she muttered, pouring tea. Said aloud, as if Peter might hear. A joke, but one carrying the iron resolve only age could forge.
At that moment, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then died. Darkness swallowed the kitchen. The air thickened, like childhood nights when her father didn’t come home from the mines, and Martha hid under blankets, certain that if she stayed small, fear wouldn’t find her.
She touched the lampshade. Warm, but lifeless. Without hesitation, she opened the drawer. There, in the corner, lay a spare. Peter had always said, *”Light’s like breath. While it lasts, we live.”* She smiled wryly. Climbed onto the stool, replaced the bulb with both hands. A click—and light flooded the room again. Soft. Warm. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat. Took a sip. Thought: *”As long as I can relight it, I’m not alone.”*
Then—the buzzer rang. Her heart stuttered. Who’d come at this hour? She shuffled to the intercom, pressed the screen. A woman—thirtyish, red knitted hat, cheeks pink from the cold, looking slightly lost.
*”Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m Katie—from the sixth floor. Don’t think we’ve met. It’s just… my birthday’s today too. Thought maybe… we could have tea? I made a cake. Wonky, but homemade.”*
Martha studied the girl’s face. Something twisted, then loosened in her chest. She pressed the release. The lock clicked. And her heart beat faster—not from fear, but the sudden, startling sense that something might still be possible.
The bulb above the door flickered again. But differently now. Like a sign. As if Peter, from somewhere far off, winked: *”Live, Martha. Live while you can.”*
And she smiled.
Because while the lamp still burned, someone still came. And life—went on. In different faces, new voices. But it went on.
