The snow had nearly melted in the town, leaving grit embedded in the icy pavements. But the cemetery still held onto its snow, though sunk low from the rain. Emily wandered for a long time between the graves, their iron railings dusted white, before she found her parents’ resting place. They lay together, though her father had died in a car crash when she was in Year Nine.
The railing had been placed over both graves. Her mother had passed three years ago. Emily had chosen a photo for the headstone that made her parents look the same age—just as she remembered them when her father was alive.
Emily had retired, left her flat in London to her son’s family, and returned to her hometown two days ago. She’d tidied the house, and this morning, she made the trip to the cemetery.
*Forgive me, Mum, for leaving you back then, for running off to London. I couldn’t stay. Thank you for understanding, for not holding me back.* She brushed the compacted snow from the headstone.
She stood a while longer, whispering goodbyes, then followed her own footprints back between the graves. She reached the main path and walked towards the gates, eyes down.
*Emily?* A man’s voice called from behind. She stopped and turned.
*Are you talking to me?* She studied the stranger—a man about her age.
*Don’t you recognise me? It’s me, James Edwards.* He smiled, and then she remembered.
*I didn’t. You’ve changed,* she said, smiling back.
*I knew you straight away, though it’s been…* He paused, counting in his head. *Thirty years.* He stepped closer.
*Thirty-two,* she corrected.
*You haven’t changed at all. Visiting your parents?* He nodded towards the graves.
*Yes. And you?*
*Gillian’s.* James glanced away.
*Gillian’s gone? When?* Emily was surprised.
She didn’t hold a grudge. The hurt had faded long ago. Now she just felt pity.
*Six months ago. It was hard. Cancer. Just me now,* he said mournfully.
Emily watched him. She thought she heard a sob—no, just a heavy sigh. His face was calm.
*Never had kids. That’s how it goes. What about you—alone, or with your husband?*
*Alone. Retired now, left the London flat to my son and came back.* She didn’t mention her husband.
They reached the gates.
*Oh, I’ve kept you—you were on your way…* she said.
*I was heading back from Gillian’s grave. I’ll visit Mum another time. Or else you might disappear again,* he said, with a dry chuckle.
*Just my luck,* Emily sighed, watching the bus pull away from the stop.
*I’ve got the car—I’ll drive you. Come on.* He gestured to the row of parked cars.
She didn’t want to go with him, to talk—but waiting by the cemetery wasn’t appealing either. She got into the cold car. James turned the key, the heater humming to life. They drove past the cemetery fence, past an empty snow-covered field reserved for future graves, past rows of terraced houses. Emily had always wondered how people could live so close to a sprawling city graveyard.
*All these years, and I never understood what happened between us. When you left, I was wrecked. Why?* James broke the silence.
Emily stared at him.
*Gillian said she was pregnant. Found out later she’d lied—she couldn’t have kids. But I believed her, married her. By then… it was too late to change things. She was furious when she heard you’d left with her fiancé. Went to London for revenge. Why did you run, Emily?*
*You still don’t get it? I didn’t care who I left with—as long as it was far from here.*
*What do you mean?* James turned to her, and the car swerved on the wet road.
Emily, with no pity for him or herself, began to explain.
***
They say one friend often takes advantage of the other. That was Emily and Gillian’s friendship. Emily had joined the school mid-year. The new girl, always top of the class—it made her unpopular.
Gillian, the prettiest girl in their year, took her under her wing. They walked the corridors together at break, went home the same way. Emily helped Gillian with homework, whispered answers during tests.
Thanks to Gillian, Emily found her place. And Gillian had a devoted admirer—James Edwards, all ears and awkwardness. She mocked him openly.
*Why do that? He’s decent. One day he’ll grow into himself,* Emily defended.
*When he does, we’ll see,* Gillian would say airily.
They shared dreams, too.
*I’m not rotting in this backwater. London’s the place. Fancy coming?* Gillian would say.
It was tempting, but Emily always refused.
*No. I can study here. And I can’t leave Mum alone.*
*Suit yourself.* Gillian shrugged. *If you want to shrivel up like your saintly mother, be my guest. I’ll marry a rich man—maybe even a millionaire.* She rolled her eyes dramatically.
*Oh, I’m sure London’s millionaires are queueing for you,* Emily grumbled, though she had no doubt it was true.
Gillian was stunning—blonde, brown-eyed, with a rare golden tan. Her figure would put actresses to shame. And men, as they say, are simple creatures.
Uni wasn’t for her. She trained as a hairdresser. Her father had insisted—no London without qualifications.
*Em, come visit. There’s no one here to talk to. No friends—just rivals. All waiting to trip you up.*
*Better you come home,* Emily would say.
*Never.*
Mum had raised Emily strictly. No makeup at school. Before dances, Emily would rush to Gillian’s to dab on mascara—as long as she washed it off before going home.
*Stand on your own feet. Men won’t last. With an education, you’ll always manage,* Mum said.
She was right. But at seventeen, careers felt dull, and Emily envied Gillian’s freedom—sent to London with her parents’ blessing.
Once, Emily bumped into James, just back from the army. Broader, taller, those ears still sticking out—but somehow it suited him now.
He walked her home, asked her to the cinema. They started seeing each other. James worked as a driver—not just any driver, but for the town’s mayor. Smart suit, nice car. A year later, he proposed. She convinced him to wait until after graduation.
The mayor pulled strings—James got a flat. Emily stayed late most nights, sometimes overnight.
One evening, leaving the cinema, they ran into Gillian. At first, Emily didn’t recognise her—too glamorous for their town.
*Em!* Gillian flung her arms around her.
*You look like you’ve stepped out of a magazine,* Emily said, breathing in expensive perfume.
She glanced at James—saw the look in his eyes. Not just interest, but awe. Gillian ignored it, chattering about her wedding, her dress—*straight from Italy…*
They all went back to James’s flat, bought wine and fruit on the way.
*You’ve done well for yourself—handsome, with a flat,* Gillian approved, wandering through the rooms. *So, when’s the wedding?*
*Soon. Three months, once I’ve done my finals,* Emily said, not thinking.
James looked away. *But it’s fine—Gillian’s engaged. She never liked him anyway,* Emily told herself—but her chest ached.
They drank, laughed. Gillian rambled about London life.
*Soon you’ll be a Londoner. Dreams come true,* Emily said.
*Yeah. If only he looked like James—then he’d be perfect.* She batted her lashes at him.
Two days later, Emily aced an exam and went to James’s flat. He’d given her a key. Mum was away visiting family—no need to rush home. She bought wine, steak, decided to surprise him with a romantic dinner.
Opening the door, she saw high heels tossed in the hallway—just like Gillian’s. Then laughter from the bedroom. She knew that laugh. Her mind refused to believe.
Peeking in: James, sprawled on the sofa, sheet barely covering him, eyes closed in bliss. Gillian’s head on his shoulder, twirling a strand of hair over his chest, giggling.
Emily’s stomach twisted. She ran, barely seeing through tears, tripped—but strong hands caught her.
*What’s the rush? Fire? Ghosts?* A man’s voice, amused.
She buried her face in his chest, sobbing. He led her outside, gave her a handkerchief, wiped her smeared mascara.
*WhoShe walked away without looking back, the weight of the past finally lifting from her shoulders.
