The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring, that familiar evening scent seeping through the cracks in the doors, settling on shoulders like a memory that wouldn’t let go. It was the same smell from when Martha Alexandra was young, when children raced through the flat, pots clattered, and life, though modest, was loud and alive. The scent of her past. Her time. Her lost everyday, now beyond reach.
She stood by the mailboxes, gripping her key so tightly it might have been the last thread holding something together. Above her door, a dim bulb still flickered, casting a pale, blueish glow on the peeling ceiling. Behind that door waited only walls, the rustle of an old tablecloth, and her own breathing—too loud in the silence.
Once, Peter had met her here. He’d grumble about her being late, about the soup going cold. But his eyes always lit up. He’d hang her coat, put the kettle on, take her hand—as if each time he was relieved she’d come home. Even in the years when his legs barely held him, he’d still rise to greet her. Because he knew: the greeting was what mattered.
After the funeral, Martha Alexandra returned to the same flat. Everything was in place—the framed photos, the armchair by the window, his teacup, her apron. But it was all like a stage set. The warmth had vanished, as if someone had yanked the plug, leaving only hollow shapes without meaning.
The flat felt too big now, walls stretching away, leaving her alone in the cold, expanding air. Even the drip from the tap sounded louder, sharper than before. She caught herself holding her breath each evening at the door—just in case, just maybe… Just once more, she’d hear his voice: “Where’ve you been, Martha?”
But today was different. It was her eighty-fifth birthday. An age when surprises weren’t expected, but still hoped for. A call, perhaps. A card. Anything alive. But the phone stayed silent. Old friends were gone. The neighbour, Auntie Eleanor, had moved to Birmingham to live with her daughter. Her own daughter was in Spain—they spoke rarely, hurried video calls between errands and the grandchildren’s lessons. And her grandson? A sticker message: *”Happy bday, Gran,”* then vanished back into the screen.
She unlocked the door, passed the mirror without looking. The kitchen was as she’d left it: her cup, the radio, pills, the empty windowsill where violets once grew. She turned on the radio—an old love song played, the one Peter had proposed to her under at the dance hall. She’d laughed through tears then. Now, alone, she nearly did again. Her throat tightened, but not from sorrow. From the impossibility of return.
*”As long as the bulb’s lit, I’m still here,”* she said aloud, pouring tea—as if Peter could hear. Said it lightly, but with the quiet resolve only the years could give.
At that moment, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then went dark. The kitchen fell silent, the air thick, like childhood nights when her father never came home from the mine, and she’d hidden under blankets, believing if she stayed small, fear might miss her.
She touched the lampshade—warm, but dead. Then, without hesitation, opened the drawer. There, in the corner, just as always, was a spare. *”Light’s like breath,”* Peter used to say. *”As long as it’s there, we’re still living.”* She smiled, climbed onto the stool, and twisted the new bulb in. A click—light spilled back into the room. Soft, warm. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat. Sipped her tea. Thought: *”As long as I can turn it on, I’m not alone.”*
Then—the buzzer rang. Her heart jumped. Who could it be at this hour? She pressed the intercom. On the screen, a woman in her thirties, cheeks red from the cold, a knitted red hat askew, looking sheepish.
*”Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m from the sixth floor. Cathy. You don’t know me, but… it’s my birthday too. Thought maybe we could have tea? I made a cake. It’s lopsided, but it’s homemade.”*
Martha Alexandra studied her face. Something in her chest loosened, straightened. She pressed the button. The lock clicked. Her heart beat faster—not from fear, but from the sense that something was still possible.
The bulb above the door flickered again. But differently now. Like a sign. Like Peter winking from somewhere above: *”Live, Martha. Live while you can.”* And she smiled.
Because as long as the bulb burns, someone still comes. And life—goes on. Maybe in new faces, new voices. But it goes on.
