If only he’d known how it would end…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the opposite lane at times. The bus was nearly empty—just another working day.
Andrew stared out the window at the grimy, slush-covered snow. A little longer, and it would melt completely. Soon enough, summer would arrive. The bus hit another bump, and the driver let out another coarse swear.
“Could lose a wheel at this rate.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones standing dark and silent beyond the iron fence.
Every time he came here, Andrew felt the same crushing weight—life’s cruel brevity, the inevitability of it all. The thought that one day he, too, would rest here twisted inside him. He didn’t visit out of longing, but obligation. It was expected—certain dates demanded respect, even if all he felt was guilt. He exhaled sharply, ashamed of himself.
The bus shuddered to a halt. The doors hissed open, passengers stepping out to stretch their legs. Most headed straight for the rows of plastic flowers lined up by the gate. Andrew moved past them, scanning for real blooms instead. The fake petals, waxed and garish, made his eyes ache. At the end of the row, he spotted an elderly woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four, then walked through the gates. The paths were slick with puddles. He tried to avoid them, but even the packed snow along the edges squelched underfoot. He wished he’d worn better boots.
Near the treeline, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out immediately, marked by a wooden cross. *Time to get a proper headstone. Or maybe wait? Let our son handle it for both of us one day.* Most of the temporary crosses around hers were gone. He took in the endless rows of the dead—so many new graves since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low fence, sinking slightly into the wet snow. His boots were definitely soaked now.
“Hello, Margaret.”
The faded photograph in its frame, propped against the cross, showed her smiling. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she was only thirty-six in it.
He recalled that birthday. He’d slipped out early for flowers, and when he returned, Margaret was already awake, dressed in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on right away, beaming. He’d snapped the photo—that moment frozen in time. Like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” Andrew hesitated, searching for a spot to place the carnations.
The grave was covered in artificial blooms, their plastic hues stubbornly bright. They never wilted, never faded—as if placed there just yesterday.
He bent down, plucked a single sprig of yellow flowers from the snow near the cross, and tucked it at the foot of the grave. In its place, he set the carnations. The frozen earth wouldn’t yield to fragile stems—soon, the snow would melt, and they’d topple over. They looked humble against the gaudy plastic, but at least they were real.
“I miss you. But I can’t come here often. Forgive me. Don’t be angry. I’m the one who deserved to lie here, not you. But life had other plans…”
He talked for a long time, sharing small updates, until his feet went numb. The silence was broken only by the occasional caw of crows, making the air feel even heavier.
“I’d better go, Maggie. Wore my old boots, and now my feet are soaked. No one to scold me now.” He sighed. “I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. I’ll tidy up then, bring you a new photo—just like this one. You were so beautiful. Forgive me.” He stepped over the fence and walked away without looking back.
At the bus stop, a handful of people waited. By the time he boarded, he could barely feel his toes.
When he finally got home, he peeled off the wet boots and socks, filled the kettle, and drank two steaming cups of tea with honey. Warm wool socks, the TV murmuring, the sofa welcoming him. He dozed off, lulled by the heat.
***
Emma joined their construction crew fresh out of college—young, bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine. Andrew couldn’t help watching her. He had a wife, a son in primary school, yet he was drawn to her without reason. What could he do? She was always there. He couldn’t just look away.
One evening, just before Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emma huddled into her coat collar, streetlights reflecting in her wide eyes. Andrew stole glances at her. When the bus arrived, he nudged through the crowd and slid into the seat beside her.
“Evening, Emma. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Used to leave it on the balcony till the thirtieth, then we’d all decorate it together. The smell—it made the whole flat feel like Christmas.”
“Today *is* the thirtieth. Got a real tree waiting?”
She laughed, bright and warm. He couldn’t look away.
“My parents are miles away. I’ve got a fake one. I’ll set it up tonight, hang the baubles, the tinsel. Put some chocolates on it—Mum always did. Then tea and a proper stare at it.” She grinned.
He could picture it—the cosy flat, the tree, Emma stretching to place a star on top, the kettle whistling in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Why?”
“Help with the tree. Then tea.” He flushed at his own boldness. What must she think of him? He rushed on. “You made it sound so nice. My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Came home, and there it was. Feels routine now. I just… wanted that spark, you know?”
“Alright. Come on, then.” Her gaze held his.
They assembled the tree, laughing, teasing, hanging ornaments. It felt natural, as if they’d known each other for years. Then tea, easy conversation. He left far too soon.
On New Year’s Eve, he went back. He couldn’t remember what lie he’d told Margaret. No—he remembered exactly. The way she’d looked at him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t help himself. Emma pulled him in like a riptide. He didn’t want to fight it.
So he kept visiting. Emma never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes. The same sadness he saw in Margaret’s when he came home.
One evening, he resolved to confess everything. He couldn’t live like this. Margaret would cry, scream. He’d take it. Just don’t let her keep his son from him. He stepped inside, and she rushed to him, tears spilling.
“What’s wrong?” He braced himself—had she found out?
Maybe it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital. Critical condition. Suddenly, his confession didn’t matter.
Then she moved in with them—too frail to live alone. Margaret agreed without hesitation, though the burden fell squarely on her shoulders.
Andrew couldn’t leave now. Not with his mother relying on Margaret. They hired a carer, but one day Margaret came home early and found her drunk. Fired on the spot.
No more strangers. Margaret quit her job to care for her herself.
Andrew went to Emma to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life, for not being able to abandon his wife and mother. Emma was young. She should marry, have children—not waste time on a married man.
In the hallway, she pressed herself against him. They stood like that a long time before she pushed him away.
He walked home cursing himself. Coward. Worthless. At work, they exchanged stiff nods, avoiding each other’s eyes. Then one day, he saw her with a new hire—a lanky bloke with glasses. His chest burned with jealousy. For days, he moved like a ghost. Then Emma married him.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Margaret rested a month, then went for a check-up. The tumour was already there. Surgery. Chemo. More surgery. More chemo.
One day at the bus stop, he ran into Emma.
“You look awful. Is it bad?” Her voice was soft, concerned.
“First Mum. Now Margaret. It’s my fault.” He stared at the ground. “I was going to leave her that day. Then Mum got sick. Like divine punishment.”
Emma paled.
“Then I’m being punished 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.
They rode the bus in silenceHe stood at the window, watching the first light of dawn break over the city, and wondered if loneliness was the price he’d pay forever.
