It feels like we were never apart…
Every day, Emily walks home, hoping that Jack will return. She knows he left his keys behind when he walked out. Still, she hopes to open the door and see his trainers in the hallway. But this time, like all the others, no miracle happens.
They lived together for two years. He filled the emptiness after her mother’s death. Why did she even start that conversation? There had never been passion between them—just comfort. But Jack never proposed, never spoke of a future, of *their* future.
“What happens next?” Emily asked one evening.
“You mean a marriage certificate? What would that change?”
“It matters to a woman. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should go our separate ways?” She said it half-jokingly, to scare him, to push him toward commitment.
“Fine, let’s end it,” he said suddenly, and left.
A week has passed since then. She waits. Should she call? Ask him to come back? But if a man walks away so easily, did he ever love her at all?
He appeared in her life just when she had lost everything. Two years ago, a delivery van driver had a heart attack, swerved, and crashed into a bus stop. Her mother and another woman died instantly. Others were hurt but survived. The driver died in hospital when he learned what he’d done—massive heart attack.
The news reported it everywhere. After the funeral, Emily moved like a ghost. She nearly stepped in front of Jack’s car. He slammed the brakes, yelled 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 she felt decades apart. He never planned ahead, lived day by day, brushed off talks of children. “Kids? Plenty of time for that. Em, aren’t we happy as we are?” Jack would laugh.
But she wanted a proper family, children, picking out prams and babygros together. Those conversations irritated him.
At home, she leaves her phone in her handbag on purpose, resisting the urge to check it constantly. Every morning before work, her heart skips as she looks for messages. Jack never writes.
Another empty evening. Some film plays on the telly. Emily stares without seeing, lost in thought, so she barely registers the muffled ringtone from the hallway. She fumbles through her bag—wallet, hairbrush, all the little things women carry—before finally grasping the phone. But it’s not Jack calling. She answers anyway, thinking his battery might be dead, or worse, he’s had an accident…
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
Suddenly, she doesn’t care who’s calling or why.
“I’m your Aunt Sophie’s neighbour. Alexandra passed away this morning.”
Aunt Sophie? What neighbour? What is this woman talking about? Then, a memory flares—a small, round woman like a dumpling, covering her smile with her hand. Missing front teeth—knocked out by her drunk husband. She smelled of the hearth and freshly baked pies.
Emily used to count down to summer visits. But her mother said they wouldn’t go back. She can’t remember why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Sophie altogether.
“Can you hear me?” the stranger asks.
“Yes. What happened?”
“The doctor said it was a blood clot. Our local hospital—not like city doctors. Might’ve left her at home, but this heat… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?” Emily asks. She has no intention of going.
“Day after tomorrow, third day, as it should be. If you can’t, say so, we’ll reschedule…”
“No need. I’ll come. How do I get there? I don’t remember,” Emily admits reluctantly.
“Of course,” the woman says, brightening. “How would you? It’s Millington. Two hours by coach, quicker by car.”
“I’ll take the coach,” Emily says, remembering Jack and his car are gone.
“Ticket to Bexley—the coach doesn’t stop here, you’ll have to walk. Should I meet you?”
“No.”
“Come. She’s got no one else…”
*I won’t go. Why should I? I barely remember Aunt Sophie. How did this neighbour even get my number?* Emily opens the wardrobe. Her mother’s funeral dress stares back. *Mum… She would’ve gone.*
She packs a long blue skirt with tiny white flowers and a black blouse. The rest is too bright for mourning.
Next morning, she hands in a leave request at work. Three days, unpaid.
“Call if you need longer,” her manager says, sympathetic.
Emily goes home, packs essentials, and heads to the station. The coach has left; the next isn’t for two hours. No point going back. She kills time in a café, buys chocolates, biscuits, wine—can’t arrive empty-handed. The wake will need them.
The whole journey, she debates how pointless this trip is. When she steps off the coach, the sun hangs low but still burns fiercely. Sweat sticks her clothes to her skin. Soon, a car overtakes her, stopping ahead. A young man steps out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How—”
“Don’t you remember me? It’s Thomas.”
A faint memory surfaces—a scrawny boy with a perpetual cold. Impossible that scruffy kid grew into this.
“Get in, I’ll drive you. Everyone’s waiting.”
“*For me?*”
“Well, yeah. Your aunt’s passed. We heard about your mum. Sorry. Aunt Maggie was worried she wouldn’t find any family. But she did.”
“The one who called? How’d she get my number?”
“Your mum must’ve left it when she visited. We’re here,” he says, cutting off her question about when her mother came.
Before she steps out, a short, pleasant-faced woman approaches.
“Look at you!” The woman hugs her. She smells of milk, bread, something painfully familiar. Sensing Emily’s stiffness, she pulls back.
“Come inside.”
The door is unlocked.
“Left it open. Thought I might miss you. This is *your* house. Sophie had no one else. Husband died. Your mum too, God rest her. No children. So you’re the heir. She always said it’d be yours.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Your mum left it when she visited, just before she died. I tried her number first—disconnected. They hadn’t spoken in years, then your mum suddenly came… Think she knew.”
“Why’d they stop speaking?”
“Over a man, of course. Michael—Sophie’s husband—loved your mum. Went after her, got turned down. Came back and drowned himself in drink. Married Sophie instead. Handsome, he was. All the girls fancied him. At first, it was fine. Then your mum visited with you. After you left, he lost it. Beat her so bad she couldn’t carry a child.”
Next summer, you visited again—older now. Sophie told your mum to leave you behind. They fought. Your mum was proud. Sophie too. Two months later, your mum took you and never came back. Michael drank himself to death. Sophie lived alone. Loved you dearly. When your mum came before she died, they made up…”
“I didn’t know she visited. She never said,” Emily murmurs.
“Must’ve had her reasons. Yesterday, I found a note with your address and number in Sophie’s things. She was ready.” The neighbour sighs.
“Like they say—one death brings two more. Michael went four years back. Then your mum. Now Sophie. There’s cabbage soup in the fridge… The tap’s three houses down… Women will come tomorrow to cook for the wake… How long are you staying?” The words tumble out, disjointed.
“Leaving after the funeral.”
“Right. Rest. The house is yours. Sophie meant to put it in your name—check the papers. If you need anything, I’m next door.”
Left alone, Emily wanders the unfamiliar house. She remembers Aunt Sophie—nothing else. Photos on the walls, stacks of old magazines. Scribbles in one—hers? Whose else?
The linen cupboard smells of ironing, of Sophie. The fridge holds cottage cheese, butter… A pot of soup. Sophie hadn’t planned to die. Emily knows she won’t eat a bite.
She feels like an intruder. Why does she need this house? She’ll leave tomorrow and never return. Let the neighbours take what they want.
Darkness falls early in the village. Blue TV glow flickers behind thin curtains. Emily turns off the light, undresses, and slips under clean sheets—the neighbour’s kindness.
Half-asleep, she hears floorboards creak. Sweat breaks out. *A ghost? Do ghosts curse when they drop things?*
A man’s voice mutters. Worse than a ghost.
She grabs a log, creeps to the door—
“Who’s there?”
A torch beam dies. The door slams shut, knocking her back. She trips, lands hard, scrambles up, and flicksShe switches on the light, heart pounding, only to find Thomas standing there sheepishly, holding a misplaced box of old family photos he’d promised to fetch for her.
