If only he had known how it would all turn out…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver swearing under his breath as he swerved around water-filled craters, sometimes even veering into the opposite lane. Few passengers rode this late in the working day.
William stared out the window at the blackened, sunken snow. Soon it would melt entirely, and summer would be just around the corner. The bus lurched again, and the driver let out another colourful curse.
“Gonna shake the wheels right off at this rate.”
Finally, the iron railings of the cemetery came into view, rows of gravestones dark behind them.
Every time he came here, William felt that heavy, inescapable weight—the certainty of life’s fleeting nature. The thought that he, too, would one day rest here filled him with dread. He didn’t visit out of longing, but out of duty. It was expected—paying respects on certain dates. Guilt prickled at him, and he sighed loudly.
The bus stopped before the cemetery gates. The doors hissed open, and passengers stretched stiff limbs before heading toward the stalls of artificial flowers lining the fence. William moved slowly, scanning for fresh blooms. The garish wax-coated petals made his eyes ache. Near the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four, stepped through the gates, and picked his way along the waterlogged paths. He skirted puddles, but the slushy snow still seeped into his old winter boots. A late regret—he should’ve worn better ones.
He walked nearly to the edge of the woods, then turned left. He found his wife’s grave by the wooden cross. “Time for a proper headstone. Or should I wait? My son could arrange one for both of us later.” Around him, temporary crosses had long since been replaced. He surveyed the sprawling city of the dead—so many new graves since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low iron railing, sinking slightly into the wet snow. His feet were soaked.
“Hello, Margaret.”
From the faded photograph in its frame beside the cross, his wife smiled back. He loved that picture. Though she was only thirty-six there, it was how he remembered her best.
He thought of that birthday—how he’d slipped out for flowers, and when he returned, she was already awake, dressed in her new frock. He’d given her a pair of gold earrings. She’d put them on immediately, beaming. He’d snapped the photo just then. It felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” William eyed the plastic flowers covering the grave, deciding where to place the carnations.
They wouldn’t pierce the frozen earth, but the snow would melt soon enough, and they’d topple anyway. They looked humble next to the gaudy artificial blooms. But at least they were real.
“I miss you. But I can’t come here often. Forgive me—don’t be angry. I deserved this plot, not you. But life had other plans…”
He spoke for a long time, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his feet went numb. Crows cawed intermittently, deepening the melancholy.
“I’d best go, love. Wore these old boots and soaked my feet. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Clean up the grave, bring a new photo—just like this one. You’re too lovely here. Forgive me… for everything.” He sighed, stepped back over the railing, and walked toward the gates without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. By the time he boarded, he could barely feel his toes.
At home, he peeled off damp socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two cups of honeyed tea. Pulling on dry wool socks, he turned on the telly and lay on the sofa. Some film played. The tea made him drowsy…
***
Emma had joined their construction crew fresh out of college—bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. William couldn’t help admiring her. Married with a son in primary school, yet he couldn’t look away. What was he to do—pretend she wasn’t there?
Once, just before Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emma huddled into her coat collar, streetlamp lights reflected in her wide eyes. When the bus came, he followed her inside and sat beside her.
“Evening, Emma. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He hesitated. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. We’d decorate it on the thirtieth—the whole family. The flat would smell like pine. Felt like Christmas straightaway.”
“Today’s the thirtieth. Got a real tree waiting?”
She laughed, bright and clear. His chest tightened.
“Parents live miles off. Mine’s artificial. Once home, I’ll unpack it, string up tinsel—sweets, too, like Mum did. Tea after, just admiring it.” She laughed again.
He pictured her flat—the tree, Emma reaching for the highest branch, cheeks flushed… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Could I come? Help decorate?” The words tumbled out.
“Why?” Her smile faltered.
“To help. Then tea after.” He flushed at his boldness. What must she think?
“You made it sound so nice—the tea, the tree… My wife and son did ours weeks back. Came home, and there it stood. Suppose he couldn’t wait. But I miss the excitement, the proper festiveness…”
“Alright then. Come on,” she said simply, meeting his gaze.
They assembled the tree, hung baubles and lights, jostling and laughing like old friends. He sensed she was happy too. Then tea… and he left, though he didn’t want to.
On New Year’s Eve, he returned. He lied to Margaret—couldn’t recall how, though he remembered. The look she gave him… as if she knew. But he couldn’t stop himself. Emma drew him in like a whirlpool. He didn’t resist. Didn’t want to.
He visited often after. Emma never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sorrow in her eyes—the same sorrow he saw in Margaret’s when he returned.
Once, resolved to confess, he walked home ready for tears, for rage. Anything. As long as she didn’t keep him from their son. But Margaret met him at the door, tearful.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startled. Had she guessed?
Perhaps it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital—critical. No time for confessions then.
Later, he brought her home. She couldn’t live alone. Margaret agreed without hesitation, though the burden would fall on her. Now he couldn’t leave—not with his mother dependent. They hired a carer, but Margaret came home early once to find her drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more risks. Margaret quit her job to care for her.
William went to Emma to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life or abandon his family. She was young—should marry, have children, not waste years on a married man.
In the hallway, she pressed against him. They stood like that until she pushed him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself for a coward. At work, they nodded but averted their eyes. One day, he saw her with a young intern—handsome, bespectacled. Jealousy near tore him apart. For days, he moved like a ghost. Soon after, Emma married the man.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Margaret rested a month before returning to work. A routine check-up found a tumour. Then came surgery, chemo, more surgery…
Once, waiting for the bus, he ran into Emma.
“You look awful. Tired, or…?” Her voice was soft with worry.
“Mother first, now Margaret. My fault. That day I meant to leave her—then Mum fell ill. As if punishing me for loving you, for wanting out.”
Emma paled. “Then I was punished too.”
“You? Why?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband left—he wanted them.” She turned away.
“Sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side, silent.
Margaret weakened until she could barely walk—just to the loo and back, clinging to walls. Thinned to a shadow. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why her? Why not him?
“Anything you want? Just say.” He took her frail hand—so small in his.
“Just sit with me,” she whispered. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to go. Scared… but waiting.”
“There’s no one. Not for years. Why not say?”
“Why? Loved you too much. My fault, really. Nights spent crying, wishing her my pain. Brought this on myself. Even… even glad when your mum fell ill. It kept you here. You were leaving, weren’t you?”
He never married again, and the years passed quietly, each day a reminder of the love he’d lost and the choices he could never undo.
