It feels like we were never apart…
Every day, Emily walked home hoping that Max would return. She knew he didn’t have keys—he’d left them behind when he walked out. Still, she hoped to open the door and find his trainers in the hallway. But no miracle came this time.
They had lived together for two years. He filled the emptiness after her mum’s death. Why had she started *that* conversation? There had never been passion between them—just comfort. But Max never proposed, never spoke of the future—*their* future.
“What happens next?” she had asked one evening.
“You mean a ring and a registry office? What would that change?”
“It matters to a woman. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should just… end things?” She had meant it as a joke, a nudge to push him toward commitment.
“Fine. Then we’ll end things,” he said flatly—and left.
A week passed. Alone, she waited. Should she call? Beg him to come back? But if a man could walk away so easily, he never loved her.
He had appeared in her life just when she was completely alone. Two years ago, the driver of a delivery van had a heart attack, lost control, and ploughed into a bus stop. Her mother and another woman died instantly; the others were luckier, injured but alive. The driver died in hospital after learning of the deaths—massive cardiac arrest.
The news had been everywhere. After the funeral, Emily moved through the days like a ghost. She nearly stepped in front of Max’s car. He slammed the brakes, stormed out shouting—then saw her face, fell silent, drove her home, and stayed.
He was three years younger. Not a big gap, yet it felt like decades. He never planned, lived day to day, brushed off talk of children. “Kids? Plenty of time for that. Em, aren’t we fine as we are?” he’d laugh.
But she wanted a family—children, picking out prams and baby grows together. It irritated him.
At home, she deliberately left her phone in her bag to stop checking it every minute. Every morning before work, her heart raced as she checked for messages. Max never wrote.
Another empty evening. Some film played on the telly—she wasn’t watching. The muffled ringtone from the hallway took a moment to register. She rummaged through her bag—purse, hairbrush, miscellany—finally grabbing it. Not Max. She answered anyway, fearing his battery had died or worse…
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
Suddenly, she didn’t care who it was.
“Your Aunt Sharon’s neighbour here. Alexandra passed this morning.”
Aunt Sharon? What neighbour? What was this woman on about? Then—a flash of memory: a round, doughy woman covering her toothless grin (knocked out by her drunk husband). She smelled of hearth-baked pies.
Emily had loved summers at Aunt Sharon’s—until Mum said they wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t recall why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Sharon entirely.
“You there?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“Doctor said it was a clot. District hospital, not like city care… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Day after next, as is proper. If you can’t, we’ll—”
“I’ll be there. How do I get there? I don’t remember.”
“Ramsbottom village. Two hours by coach, quicker by car.”
“I’ll take the coach,” she said, remembering Max had the car now.
“Coach only goes as far as Blackley—you’ll walk the rest. Need fetching?”
“No.”
“Come. She’s got no one else…”
*I won’t go. Why should I?* But her eyes fell on the dress she’d worn to Mum’s funeral. *Mum would’ve gone.*
She packed a navy skirt, black blouse—nothing else was sombre enough.
In the morning, she handed in a leave request.
“Call if you need longer,” her manager said gently.
She went home, gathered her things, and headed to the station. Missed the coach. Waited two hours, killing time at café tables and newsagents. Bought biscuits, sweets, wine—couldn’t arrive empty-handed.
The journey felt absurd. By the time she disembarked, the sun was low but relentless. Sweat glued her clothes to her skin. Soon, a car slowed beside her. A man stepped out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How—?”
“Don’t recognise me? It’s Nicholas.”
A snot-nosed boy flickered in her mind—surely not this tall, broad-shouldered man.
“Hop in. Everyone’s waiting.”
“*For me?*”
“Your aunt’s passed. We heard about your mum. Sorry. Aunt Nora fretted she wouldn’t find any kin. But she did.”
“The one who called? How’d she get my number?”
“Maybe your mum left it when she visited. Here we are.” He pulled up before she could ask *when* Mum had visited.
A short, kindly woman hurried over.
“Look at you!” She hugged Emily, smelling of milk, bread, something achingly familiar. Sensing stiffness, she stepped back. “Let’s get inside.”
The door was unlocked.
“Left it open in case I missed you. This is your home now. Sharon had no one else. Husband gone, your mum too, God rest her. No kids. You’re the only heir.”
“But my number—?”
“Your mum left it, just before she passed. I rang hers first—disconnected. They hadn’t spoken in years, then suddenly… Maybe she sensed it coming.”
“Why’d they stop speaking?”
“A man, of course. Michael—Sharon’s husband—loved your mum. She left for the city, he followed, got rebuffed, came back and married Sharon. Handsome devil, he was. At first, fine. Then your mum visited with you, and… Well. After you left, Michael lost it. Beat her so badly she couldn’t carry a child.”
The next summer, they returned. Sharon demanded Mum leave *you* behind. They fought. Pride on both sides. Mum took you and never came back. Michael drank himself to death. Sharon lived alone, always loved you. When 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 Sharon’s things. Knew it was coming…”
“Three deaths come in threes,” the neighbour rambled. “Michael four years back, your mum, now Sharon… There’s stew in the fridge. Outhouse three doors down… Women’ll come at dawn to cook… Staying long?”
“Just till after the funeral.”
“Right. Rest, make yourself at home. Check the deeds—might be in your name already.”
Gone, the neighbour left Emily adrift in unfamiliar rooms. Photos, Soviet-era magazines, childish scribbles—hers? In the wardrobe, pressed linens held Sharon’s scent. The fridge held curd, butter, uneaten stew. Sharon hadn’t planned to die.
She felt like an intruder. *Why claim a house I don’t remember?* Tomorrow, she’d leave and never return. Let the neighbours take what they wanted—she couldn’t haul veg to her flat.
Night fell early in the village. Blue TV glow leaked through curtains. Emily undressed, slid under crisp sheets—Aunt Nora’s doing.
Half-asleep, floorboards creaked. Sweat drenched her. *A ghost? Do ghosts swear?* Something fell; a man muttered curses.
She grabbed a log, crept to the door—
“Who’s there?”
A torch flicked off. The door slammed into her, sending her sprawling. She scrambled up, flicked the light on. A knock at the window made her jump.
“Emily! It’s Aunt Nora!”
She unbolted the door, fell into the woman’s arms.
“Someone was here—a man—”
“Stephen, the drunken thief. Nicholas’ll sort him. Money gone?”
“Didn’t get inside.”
“I saw your light. Fancy staying with us?”
“No.” She locked up but didn’t sleep till dawn.
Women arrived at sunrise, clattering pans, ignoring her. Outside, the sun blazed—a day for living, not mourning. Nora hurried over.
“They here? Best check if they need help.”
A lorry arrived. The coffin was set on stools. The village gathered, whispering farewells. Emily looked away. They loaded it back up, spruce branches cushioning the ride. Some climbed into the lorry; Nicholas offered his car.
Back at the house, the table groaned with funeral baked meats, kielbasa, blinis, jelly glasses. Emily couldn’t eat. She slipped into the garden, nipping sour currants straight from the bush.
“There you are.” Nicholas joined her. “Heard Stephen scared you. Don’t fret—he’s harmless. I’m with the police; folks here mind me.”
“I’mShe looked at Nicholas and realized, for the first time in years, the weight of loneliness had lifted.
