**Diary Entry**
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the other lane at times. Not many passengers rode with us—hardly surprising for a weekday.
William stared out the window at the blackened, slushy snow. Just a little longer and it would melt completely, then summer would be close. Another bump sent the bus lurching, the driver muttering under his breath.
“At this rate, we’ll lose the wheels before we get there.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond them.
Every time William came here, he felt the heavy weight of inevitability, the fleeting nature of life. The thought that one day he, too, would rest here was unbearable. He didn’t visit out of longing—just obligation. Some things were expected: visiting loved ones on certain dates. Guilt twisted in his chest, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus stopped outside the gates. Passengers shuffled out, stretching their legs, heading straight for the rows of artificial flowers lining the fence. William lingered, searching for real ones. The garish plastic blooms, stiff with wax, made his eyes ache. At the end, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. Puddles swallowed the paths. He tried to avoid them, but water lurked beneath the slush, seeping into his old winter boots. Regret prickled—he should’ve worn something sturdier.
Near the treeline, he turned left. His wife’s grave was easy to find by the wooden cross. *Time for a proper headstone. Or should I wait? Our son could arrange one for both of us later.* Around him, temporary crosses had long been replaced. The rows stretched on, new graves dug since his last visit in autumn.
William stepped over the low railing, sinking into the half-melted snow. His feet were soaked.
“Hello, Lydia.”
The faded photograph in its frame showed her smiling. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six when it was taken.
He recalled that birthday. He’d rushed out for flowers, and when he returned, Lydia was already dressed in a new outfit, beaming as she fastened the gold earrings he’d given her. He’d snapped the photo just then. Felt like yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, eyeing the carnations.
The grave was covered in artificial flowers, still unnervingly bright. Plastic never faded.
William bent, plucked a single withered yellow stem from the snow near the cross, and tucked the carnations in its place. The frozen earth wouldn’t take them—they’d topple when the snow melted. They looked humble beside the gaudy plastic, but at least they were alive.
“Miss you. Can’t come too often—sorry. Don’t be angry. It should’ve been me here, not you. But life had other plans.”
He talked for ages, sharing news until his feet were numb. The cawing of crows pierced the silence, sharp and unsettling.
“Got to go, love. Wore these old boots and my feet are soaked. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Clean things up, bring a new photo—same one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped over the railing, and walked away without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. By the time he boarded, his toes had gone numb.
Home was a slow trudge. He peeled off wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two mugs of tea with honey. Dry wool socks, the telly flickering, and he collapsed onto the sofa. Some old film was on. The warmth lulled him to sleep…
***
Emily started at the construction site fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckled nose, a smile like spring sunshine. William couldn’t help staring. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet this girl held his gaze. What was he supposed to do? Look away?
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emily huddled into her coat collar, streetlights glowing in her wide eyes. He stole glances until the bus arrived, nudging past others to sit beside her.
“Evening, Emily. Heading home?”
She nodded. “You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always bought a real one. Left it on the balcony till the 30th, then we’d all decorate it together. The smell—it made everything feel like Christmas.”
“It *is* the 30th. Got a real one waiting?”
She laughed, clear and bright. He was enchanted.
“Parents live miles away. Mine’s artificial. I’ll set it up tonight, hang sweets like Mum used to. Tea and admiring after.” Another laugh.
He pictured it—the flat, the tree, Emily flushed as she reached for the top branches, the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words tumbled out.
“Why?” She blinked.
“Help with the tree. Have tea.” He flushed at his own boldness. What must she think?
“You made it sound so nice,” he rushed on. “My wife and son decorated ours weeks ago. Walked in, and there it was. Guess he couldn’t wait. But I miss the excitement, the festivity…”
“Alright then,” she said simply, those big eyes fixed on him.
They assembled the tree, hung baubles and lights, laughing like old friends. It felt easy. Natural. Then tea… and he left, though every part of him wanted to stay.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Couldn’t recall the lie he’d told Lydia—no, he remembered. The look she’d given him, like she *knew*. But he couldn’t stop. Emily pulled him in like a whirlpool. No will to resist. No desire to, truthfully.
Visits became habit. Emily never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes. The same sadness he saw in Lydia’s when he returned home.
Once, walking back, he resolved to confess. Couldn’t live the lie anymore. Knew Lydia would cry, shout. Fine. Just don’t take his son. He stepped inside—and she rushed to him, tears streaming.
“What’s wrong?” Stupid question. Maybe this was for the best.
His mother was in hospital. Critical. Suddenly, his confession didn’t matter.
Later, she moved in with them. Needed full-time care. Lydia agreed without hesitation, though the burden would fall on her.
William couldn’t leave now. Hired a carer at first, but Lydia came home early once, caught the woman drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more risks. Lydia quit her job to care for his mother.
He went to Emily to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to wreck her life—or abandon his wife and mother. Emily was young; she deserved marriage, children, not an affair.
In the hallway, she pressed against him. They stood like that until she pushed him away.
Walking home, he called himself every name—coward, worthless. At work, they nodded stiffly, avoiding eye contact. Then he saw her with a young intern, glasses, handsome. Jealousy clawed at him. Days passed in a daze. Soon after, Emily married him.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Lydia took a month to recover, then returned to work. A routine medical flagged a tumour. Surgery, chemo, more surgery—it never ended.
One day, at the bus stop, he saw Emily again.
“You look awful. Tired or worse?” Her voice was soft, concerned.
“First Mum, now Lydia. My fault. That day I meant to leave her—that same day Mum collapsed. Buried her, then Lydia… God’s punishing me. For loving you. For wanting to walk 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.
“Sorry,” was all he could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side in silence.
Lydia faded daily, barely leaving bed. Thin, frail. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why her? Why not him?
“Want anything? You eat so little.” He perched on the bed, her delicate hand dwarfed in his.
“Just sit with me,” she whispered, breath ragged. “I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Kept waiting for you to leave. Dreading it. Wanting it.”
“She’s gone. Long gone. Why didn’t you say?”
“Why? I loved you. Stupid, really. Lying awake, wishing her my pain. Only brought it on myself. Even glad when your mum got sick—it kept you here. You *were* going to leave, weren’t you?”
“No. NeverTwo years later, alone in his flat, William placed fresh carnations on Lydia’s grave, whispering, “If only we’d known how it would end,” before turning away into the quiet dusk.
