Every day, Emily walks home hoping that Max will return. She knows he left his keys behind when he walked out, yet she still dreams of opening the door to find his trainers in the hallway. But like every other day, no miracle happens.
They lived together for two years. He filled the emptiness after her mum’s passing. Why did she even start that conversation? There was never passion between them—just comfort. But Max never proposed, never spoke of a future, *their* future.
“What’s next?” Emily asked one evening.
“You mean marriage? What would that change?”
“It matters to women. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should end this?” She said it lightly, hoping to scare him into action.
“Then let’s end it,” he replied—just like that—and left.
A week has passed. She waits. Should she call? Ask him to come back? But if a man leaves so easily, did he ever love her?
Max came into her life when she was completely alone. Two years ago, a van driver had a heart attack, lost control, and ploughed into a bus stop. Emily’s mum and another woman died instantly; others were injured but survived. The driver died in hospital after learning his mistake had cost lives. A massive heart attack.
The news covered it for days. After the funeral, Emily moved like a ghost. She nearly stepped in front of Max’s car. He slammed the brakes, shouted at her—then saw her face and fell silent. He drove her home and stayed.
He’s three years younger. Not a big gap, but it feels like decades. He never plans, lives day by day, brushes off talk of children. “Kids? We’ve got time. Em, aren’t we good as we are?” Max would laugh.
But she wanted a proper family—children, picking out prams and babygros. Those conversations irritated him.
At home, she leaves her phone in her handbag, resisting the urge to check it every minute. Each morning before work, her heart skips as she looks for messages. Nothing.
Another empty evening. Some film plays on the telly, but Emily’s thoughts are miles away. A muffled ringtone from the hallway barely registers. She digs through her bag—purse, hairbrush, bits and bobs—until she grabs her phone. Not Max. She answers anyway, half-expecting his battery died or he’s had an accident—
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
Her hopes deflate.
“Your aunt Sally’s neighbour. Alexandra passed this morning.”
Aunt Sally? What neighbour? Who *is* this? Then a memory flickers—a round, rosy-cheeked woman, smiling behind her hand. No front teeth—knocked out by her drunk husband. She smelled of woodsmoke and homemade pies.
Emily used to beg for summer trips to Aunt Sally’s. Then Mum said they wouldn’t go back. She can’t remember why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Sally entirely.
“Are you there?” the voice presses.
“Yes. What happened?”
“Doctor said it was a blood clot. District hospital, not like city care. Could’ve left her at home, but in this heat… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?” Emily asks, already deciding *not* to go.
“Day after tomorrow, as is proper. If you can’t, we’ll adjust—”
“No, I’ll come. Tell me how to get there. I don’t remember.”
“Course you don’t,” the woman says brightly. “Oakfield village. Two hours by coach, quicker by car.”
“I’ll take the coach,” Emily says, suddenly recalling Max took the car.
“Get a ticket to Briarwood. No coach goes further; it’s a walk from there. Need a lift?”
“No.”
“Come. She’s got no one else.”
*Why should I go? I barely remember her. How did this woman even get my number?* Emily opens the wardrobe—her mum’s funeral dress stares back. *Mum… she’d go.*
She packs a long blue skirt with tiny white flowers and a black tee. Everything else is too bright for a funeral.
Next morning, she hands in a leave request at work.
“Take more time if needed,” her manager says kindly.
She heads home, gathers her things, and catches a coach. The first one’s gone; she kills two hours in station cafes, buying biscuits, sweets, wine. Can’t arrive empty-handed.
The journey feels pointless. By the time she alights, the sun is setting but still fierce. Sweat clings her blouse to her back. A car slows. A man steps out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How—”
“You don’t recognise me? It’s Nathan.”
A scrawny, snot-nosed boy flashes in her mind. No way *that* kid grew into *this*.
“Hop in. Everyone’s waiting.”
“For *me*?”
“Your aunt’s passed. We know about your mum. So sorry. Aunt Nell fretted she’d find no family. But she did.”
“The one who called? How’d she get my number?”
“Probably your mum left it when she visited.” They arrive before Emily can ask when Mum *ever* came here.
A short, warm-faced woman embraces her. She smells of milk, bread—something achingly familiar.
“You’re all grown! Come inside.”
The door’s unlocked.
“I left it so—just in case. It’s your house now. Sally had no one else. Her husband’s gone, your mum too, God rest her. No children. So it’s yours. She always said so.”
“How *did* you get my number?”
“Oh! Your mum left it when she visited, just before… I tried her old number first, but it’s disconnected. Her and Sally hadn’t spoken in years, then suddenly— Well. She must’ve known.”
“Why’d they stop speaking?”
“A man, of course. Sally’s Michael fancied your mum. Followed her to the city, got rejected, came back and drank himself mean. Married Sally. Pretty, he was—girls swooned. At first, he was decent. Then your mum visited with *you*. After that, he turned. Beat Sally so bad she lost every babe she carried.”
Next summer, they returned. Sally begged your mum to leave *you* behind. They rowed. Pride on both sides. Two months later, your mum took you and never came back. When Michael drank himself dead, Sally stayed alone. She *adored* you. Then your mum visited before she died… They made peace.”
“She never told me.”
“Must’ve had her reasons. Last night, I found a note with your details in Sally’s things. That’s when I rang. She *knew*.” The neighbour sighs. “They say one death brings two more. God loves a trinity. Michael went four years back. Then your mum. Now Sally. There’s soup in the fridge… Well’s three doors down… Women’ll come tomorrow to prep the wake… Staying long?”
“Just ’til after the funeral.”
“Rest, then. House is yours.”
The neighbour leaves. Emily wanders, unrecognising. Faded photos, old magazines, childish scribbles—hers? Whose else?
The fridge holds butter, cottage cheese, a pot of soup. Sally didn’t plan to die. Emily can’t eat a bite.
She feels like an intruder. What use is this house if she doesn’t remember it? She’ll leave tomorrow and never return. Let the neighbours take what they want.
Darkness falls. Village lights dim early. Blue TV glows leak through curtains. Emily undresses in the dark, slipping under crisp sheets—thanks to Aunt Nell.
Just as she drifts off—floorboards creak. Her skin prickles. *A ghost? Do ghosts* drop *things?* A man’s curse. Worse than a spectre.
She grabs a log, creeps to the door—
“Who’s there?”
A torch flickers out. The door slams, knocking her back. She trips, lands hard, scrambles up, flicks the light on—
A knock. “Emily? It’s Aunt Nell!”
She unbolts the door, flings herself into the woman’s arms. “Someone was *inside*—”
“Stephen, the drunk. I’ll tell Nathan. He’s police—they’ll listen.”
“But the door was *locked*—”
“Through the yard.”
Dawn comes too soon. Women arrive, clattering pots, ignoring her. A truck brings the coffin. The village gathers. Emily avoids looking.
At the wake, she can’t eat. She picks sour currants in the garden.
Nathan finds her. “Stephen scared you. He’s harmless—just not right. I’ll keep him away.”
“I’m not scared. I’ll leave after—”
“No evening coach. Need a lift?”
She nods.
“House plans?”
“None.”
The women clean up, vanish. Emily takes nothing. Nathan’s car arrives.
“Ready?”
“Just goodbye to Aunt Nell.”
Then, as she waves goodbye to Oakfield from the car window, Emily realizes home isn’t a place, but the warmth she finds in Nathan’s quiet smile.
