My Ex-Wife… Two years ago, as my work assignment was ending and I prepared to return home to Altham, I had three hours to spare after buying my ticket. Wandering the city, I was suddenly approached by a woman I immediately recognised—my first wife, whom I had divorced twelve years earlier. Zina looked much the same, though her face was paler. Our meeting seemed to affect her just as deeply as it did me. I’d loved her intensely—painfully so—which led to our divorce. My jealousy was overwhelming; I suspected her of everyone, even her mother. Whenever she was late, my heart pounded and I felt like I was dying. Eventually, Zina left; she couldn’t stand my constant questioning. I remember coming home from work one day with a puppy to cheer her up, only to find a note on the table. She wrote that although she loved me dearly, my suspicions had worn her down, and she had to leave, begging me not to look for her… Now, after twelve years apart, we met by chance in the city where I was on business. We talked for a long time, and I began to worry about missing my coach home. At last, I said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go or I’ll miss my bus.” Zina asked a favour: “Alex, please, do me this one kindness. I know you’re in a hurry, but for the sake of what we once shared, don’t refuse me. Come with me to an office just for a moment—it’s important, and I can’t go alone.” I agreed, but warned, “Only if it’s quick!” We entered a large building, wandering up and down staircases, moving from one wing to another—it felt like only fifteen minutes. People of every age—from children to the elderly—passed us, but I didn’t wonder why so many, especially children, were in such a place. My attention was fixed on Zina. She finally disappeared behind a door, giving me a look as if saying farewell, and said, “How strange—it seems I could be neither with you, nor without you.” I waited for her to return, wanting to ask what she meant, but she never came back. Suddenly, reality hit: I was running late and still standing there. Glancing around, I panicked. The building was derelict, its windows just gaping holes. There were no stairs—only some planks I had to carefully use to make my way out. I missed my bus by an hour and had to buy a new ticket. When I finally did, I learned the bus I’d missed had crashed into a river and no one survived. Two weeks later, I stood at my former mother-in-law’s door; I’d tracked her down through records. Mrs. Allen told me Zina had died eleven years earlier, just a year after our divorce. I didn’t believe her, thinking she feared I’d resume my jealous pursuit. When I asked to see Zina’s grave, she surprisingly agreed. Hours later, I was at a gravestone, staring at the smiling face of the woman I’d loved all my life—the woman who, in an inexplicable way, had just saved mine.

My Ex-Wife

This all happened two years ago. My work assignment was drawing to a close, and I was preparing to head home to Shrewsbury. After buying my train ticket, I realised I still had three hours to spare, so I set off to wander about the city one last time before my departure. Thats when a woman approached me on the pavementsomeone I recognised in an instant.

It was my first wife, Ruth. We had parted ways twelve years back. She looked almost unchanged, save for a certain paleness in her face. The shock of that chance encounter was clear in her eyesa mirror to my own bewilderment.

I had loved Ruth deeply, painfully. My jealousy was suffocating, clinging, and because of that, Id driven her away. I was so possessive that I couldnt stand her having relationships with anyonenot even her own mother. If she was late coming home, my chest would tighten, panic would rise, and Id be convinced some disaster had befallen.

Eventually, Ruth left me, exhausted by my endless questionswhere shed been, who shed seen, and why. I remember coming home from work one day, a tiny spaniel puppy hidden inside my coat, hoping to cheer her up. But the flat was empty, and on the kitchen table lay a note.

She wrote that she had to go, even though she still loved me. My suspicions had tormented her to breaking point. She begged forgiveness and pleaded with me not to try and find her

And now, after all those years, I found myself face-to-face with her as if fate was playing a cruel trick during a simple business trip. We talked for a long time, the hours slipping by until I realised with a start that I was in danger of missing my train to Shrewsbury.

At last, I forced myself to say, “I’m sorry, Ruth, but I have to go. My trains leaving soon and I cant miss it.”

Then Ruth turned to me, her eyes earnest and pleading. Tom, could you do me one last favour? I know youre in a hurry, but for the sake of the good times we shared, please, dont refuse me. Walk with me to an office nearbyits important and I cant manage it alone.

Of course, I agreed, though I warned, We have to make it quick! Ruth led me into a rather grand old building, and we wound our way for what felt like only fifteen minutes, though time seemed strangely suspended. We climbed stairs, crossed corridors. Children and elderly folks went past us, chatting, laughing. Looking back, I should have wondered what families with toddlers or pensioners would be doing in an old city administrative building at that hour, but all my attention was on Ruth.

At some point, she stopped before a door, turned, and looked at me with a final, haunting sadness. Isnt it strange? I could neither be with you nor without you.

She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. I lingered, expecting her to return, wanting to ask what she meant by those words. But the seconds dragged. She never came back.

Suddenly, as if waking from a trance, I realised I’d lost all sense of urgencymy train was leaving at any moment! In a panic, I looked around and was chilled to the bone. The once-grand building was now a derelict shell. Windows gaped black and empty. There were no staircases left, just collapsed beams, treacherous planks bridging the drop.

With trembling steps, I made my way out. By the time I reached the station, Id missed my train by a good hour and had no choice but to fork out for another ticket.

While waiting in the queue, a station official announced the news: the train I missed had derailed at the river bend outside town. No one survived.

A fortnight later, I found myself hesitating outside my former mother-in-laws door. Using a local records office, Id tracked down Mrs. Margaret Thornton to her quiet cottage. She received me gently, but her words cut deepRuth had died eleven years ago, barely a year after our divorce.

I refused to accept it, convinced Margaret was just protecting her daughter from my notorious jealousy. But when I asked to see Ruths grave, she surprised me by agreeing.

Two hours later, I stood before the gravestone, staring at the gentle, smiling face of the woman Id loved so ruinously. It was unmistakable in the portrait engraved into the marble. The woman who, in some inexplicable way, had returned to save my life on that dayand then vanished from it once more.