The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring. That familiar evening scent seeped through the gaps in the doors, settling on her shoulders like a memory that refused to let go. The same smell had lingered here when Martha Alexandra was still young—when children ran through the flat, pots clattered, and life, though simple, was loud and alive. The smell of her past. Her time. Her lost everyday world, one she could never return to.
She stood by the mailboxes, gripping her key so tightly it might’ve held something more important than just the way inside. Above her door, a dim bulb still flickered, casting a pale blue glow on the peeling ceiling. Behind that door waited only walls, the rustle of an old tablecloth, and her own breathing—so loud in the silence.
Once, Peter had greeted her. He’d grumble that she was late again, that the soup would go cold—but his eyes had always lit up. He’d hang up her coat, put the kettle on, take her hand—like he was glad, every single time, that 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 Alexandra returned to the same flat. Everything was still there—framed photos, the armchair by the window, his cup, her apron—but it all felt like props. The warmth of life had vanished, as if someone had yanked a plug from the socket, cutting the current. Only the shapes remained, outlines without meaning.
The house began to feel too big, the walls stretching away, leaving her alone in the cold, hollow air. Even the dripping tap sounded louder, sharper. Every evening, as she reached the door, she’d catch herself holding her breath—just in case, just maybe… in case she’d hear his voice again: “Where’ve you been, Martha?”
But today was special. She turned eighty-five. An age where surprises weren’t expected—but still hoped for. A call, a card, something alive. But the phone stayed silent. Old friends were long gone. Mrs. Thompson from next door had moved in with her daughter in Manchester. Her own daughter? In Spain. They called rarely, quick video chats wedged between her grandkids’ activities. And her grandson? Sent a sticker: “Granny, happy b-day,”—then vanished back into the screen.
She unlocked the door. Passed the mirror without looking. The kitchen was as she left it—cup, radio, pills, the empty windowsill where violets once sat. She turned on the wireless. An old love song played—the one Peter had proposed to, right there on the dancefloor. Back then, she’d laughed through tears. Now she did the same, just alone. Her throat tightened—not from sorrow, but from knowing she couldn’t get it all back.
“As long as the lamp burns, I’m alive,” she said aloud, pouring her tea, as if Peter were still nearby. Said it lightly, but with the quiet resolve that only years could give.
At that moment, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then—gone. The kitchen plunged into dark, eerie silence. The air thickened, like when she was a child hiding under blankets after her father never came home from the mine, praying that fear wouldn’t find her if she stayed small.
She touched the lampshade—warm, but dead. Then, without hesitation, opened the drawer. There, in the corner, lay a spare. Peter had always said, “Light’s like breath. While it’s there, we live.” She smirked. Carefully climbed onto the stool, twisted the new bulb in. A click—and warmth flooded the room again. Soft, golden. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat. Took a sip. Thought: *As long as I can light it, I’m not alone.*
Then—the buzzer rang. Her heart jumped. Who’d come at this hour? She switched on the screen. A woman, thirtyish, cheeks red from the cold, wearing a knitted red hat, looking unsure.
“Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m from the sixth floor. Emma. You don’t know me, but… it’s my birthday today too. And I thought… maybe we could have tea together? I made a cake. It’s lopsided, but homemade.”
Martha Alexandra stared at the girl’s face. Something in her chest tightened, then loosened. She pressed the button. The lock clicked. Her heart beat just a little faster—not from fear, but from 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 had winked from somewhere beyond: *Live, Martha. Live while you can.*
And she smiled.
Because as long as the lamp burns, someone still comes. And life—goes on. Maybe in new faces, different voices. But it goes on.
