The bus jolted over potholes, its driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the oncoming lane at times. Few passengers rode at this hour—just another workday.
Graham stared out the window at the grimy, melting snow. Soon it would be gone, and summer would be just around the corner. Another bump sent the bus lurching, and the driver let out another colourful swear.
“Bloody roads’ll shake the wheels right off.”
Finally, the cemetery’s iron railings came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond them.
Every visit filled Graham with the same heavy dread—the inevitability of it all, the fleetingness of life. The thought that someday he, too, would rest here made his stomach twist. He didn’t come out of grief, but duty. It was expected—certain dates demanded visits. Guilt gnawed at him, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus hissed to a stop. Passengers filed out, stretching stiff limbs before drifting toward the stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. Graham followed, scanning for fresh blooms instead. The wax-coated petals, garish and bright, made his eyes ache. At the end, a woman stood behind a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The paths were swamped. He dodged puddles, but slush still seeped into his worn winter boots. Regret flickered—he should’ve worn better shoes.
Nearing the treeline, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out by its simple wooden cross. *Time for a proper headstone. Or wait? Maybe our son will arrange it later for us both.* Around him, temporary crosses had long been replaced. The field of the dead stretched on—so many new graves since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low fence, sinking into the half-frozen snow. His toes were definitely wet now.
“Hello, Evelyn.”
From the faded photograph propped against the cross, his wife smiled back. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six here.
He recalled that birthday. He’d dashed out for flowers, and when he returned, Evelyn was already dressed in a new frock. He gave her gold earrings. She’d put them on immediately, beaming—and he’d snapped the photo. Like it was yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He adjusted the carnations, unsure where to place them.
The grave was already crowded with plastic blooms, vibrant as the day they were left.
Graham bent, plucking a brittle yellow flower from the snow near the cross. He tucked it at the foot of the grave and laid the carnations in its place. The frozen earth wouldn’t take the stems, and the snow would melt soon enough—they’d topple anyway. They looked humble beside the gaudy plastic, but at least they were alive.
“I miss you. But I can’t come often. Forgive me, love. *I* deserved this plot, not you. Life’s a cruel bastard…”
He talked for a long while, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his feet were numb. Crows cawed now and then, sharp and lonely. The sound only deepened the dread in his chest.
“Best go, Evie. Wore these old boots like an idiot. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Tidy things up, bring a new photo—same one. You’re too pretty here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped back over the fence, and walked toward the gates without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. By the time he boarded, his toes had gone numb.
Home felt miles away. He kicked off the soaked boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and gulped two mugs of honeyed tea. Dry wool socks, the telly murmuring—he collapsed onto the sofa. Some film was playing. The tea warmed him, tugging him toward sleep…
***
Emily had joined the construction crew fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled nose, a smile like spring sunshine. Graham couldn’t look away. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet this girl had him hooked. And she was everywhere—how could he ignore her?
One evening, just before Christmas, they bumped into each other at the bus stop. Emily huddled into her coat collar. Streetlights flickered in her wide eyes. He stole glances until the bus arrived, elbowing past to sit beside her.
“Evening, Emily. Heading home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always bought a real one. Left it on the balcony till the thirtieth, then we’d all decorate together. The smell—God, it made everything feel like Christmas.”
“But it *is* the thirtieth. Got a pine waiting?”
She laughed, bright and clear. He was mesmerised.
“Parents live miles away. Mine’s artificial. I’ll set it up tonight, hang the chocolates—Mum always did. Then tea and admiring.” Another laugh.
He pictured it—her flat, the tree, Emily reaching up on tiptoes to place a bauble. The kettle whistling in the kitchen…
“Can I come?” The words spilled out.
“What?”
“Help with the tree. Then tea.” He flushed at his own boldness. *What’s she thinking now?* “It’s just—you made it sound nice. My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Walked in, and there it was. Feels routine now. Miss the magic of it.”
“Alright,” she said simply, those big eyes studying him.
He assembled the tree in minutes. They draped it in tinsel and baubles, laughing, shoulders brushing. It felt like he’d known her forever. Like she felt it too. Then tea… and he left, though every fibre hated it.
On New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall the lie he’d told Evelyn—no, he remembered. The way she’d looked at him, like she *knew*. But he was powerless. Drawn to Emily like a riptide. No will to resist. No desire to, really.
So he kept visiting. Emily never asked questions. But sometimes, he caught sadness in her gaze—the same shadow he saw in Evelyn’s when he came home.
One evening, Graham resolved to confess. He couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Evelyn would cry, shout. Fine. Just don’t take his son. He stepped inside—and she rushed to him, tear-streaked.
“What’s wrong?” *Does she already know?* Maybe it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital. Critical. Suddenly, his guilt was the least of their worries.
Then they brought Mum home. She couldn’t live alone. Evelyn agreed without hesitation—though the burden would fall on her.
Now Graham couldn’t leave. Not with his mother relying on Evelyn. They hired a carer, but one day Evelyn came home early—found her drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more strangers. Evelyn quit her job, became a full-time carer.
Graham went to Emily to end it. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life—or abandon Evelyn and Mum. *You’re young. You should marry, have kids. Not waste time on a married man.*
In the hallway, Emily pressed against him. They stood like that forever before she pushed him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself—coward, bastard. At work, they nodded but never met each other’s eyes. Then one day, he saw Emily with a lanky bloke—some intern with glasses. Jealousy nearly split his ribs. He moped for days. Soon after, Emily married him.
Mum died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Evelyn rested a month before returning to work. A routine check-up found a tumour. Then it was surgeries, chemo, more surgeries…
One day, at the bus stop, he ran into Emily.
“You look awful. Tired or…?” Her voice was soft, worried.
“Mum first, now Evelyn. My fault. That day I meant to leave? The *same* day Mum got sick. Buried her, then Evelyn… God’s punishing me. For loving you. For wanting out.”
Emily paled. “Then He punished me too.”
“Why *you*?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. He left.” She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side in silence.
Evelyn barely rose now. Just shuffled to the loo and back. Wasted to bone. Shame choked him. Why her? Why not him?
“Anything you fancy? You’re not eating.” He perched on the bed, cradling her frail hand. It vanished in his grip.
“Nothing. Just sit with me.” She breathed heavily. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Waited forHe closed his eyes, listening to the distant hum of the city, and wondered if forgiveness could ever be as quiet as the night outside.
