Oliver realized too late that standing on a stool with a rope in his hands could be easily misunderstood.
He sat on the edge of his bed in old sweatpants, bare feet on the floor. Again, he thought he heard his mother calling.
*Oliver… love… Oliver…*
Nearly every night, her voice woke him. He knew it couldn’t be real—she had died three weeks ago. Yet there he sat, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. He’d worked from home to stay with her, tried hiring a nurse, but after three days, she’d run off with his savings and his mother’s gold bracelet. He didn’t risk it again.
Eyes glued to his screen, he’d jump at the faintest sound, rushing to her side. Some nights, he collapsed at his desk, exhausted. That last night, he’d stumbled in at her call—only to find her still, her chest silent. He wept, begging forgiveness for the guilt tangled with his relief. She was free. So was he.
Yet here he was, three weeks later, feeling nothing but hollow dread.
She’d been lively once—always humming while folding laundry or dusting. He never imagined her wasting away.
Sleep wouldn’t come. He checked the clock—half six. Outside, autumn fog hung heavy, seeping into the room, leaching colour from the walls. Quiet. Empty. Grey.
He felt it too—drained, lifeless. Dressing quickly, he stepped toward her room. He’d only entered once since her death, picking out her burial clothes. Now, he flung the door open. The stale reek of medicine, sickness, and sweat hit him. Avoiding the crumpled bedsheets, he yanked open the curtains, shoved the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, carrying the distant hum of London waking. Light spilled across the room, sharpening the shadows. Something stirred in him. He tore the sheets from the bed, flung her dressing gown—still waiting for her—onto the floor. Bundling it all into the washing machine, he worked furiously.
He returned with a bin bag, sweeping pill bottles and a half-finished glass of water from the bedside stool into it. He smoothed the bedcover, wiped dust from the nightstand, mopped the floor. The room wasn’t alive—but it breathed easier. Spurred on, he cleaned the entire flat.
Pleased, he leaned against the windowsill as the kettle boiled. Even the sun seemed to rally, tearing through the clouds, painting streaks of gold across the sky. His spirits lifted.
The fridge was empty. He couldn’t remember his last proper meal. Near the end, his mother could only stomach thin porridge. He’d eaten the same, too drained to cook for himself, then scraped by on funeral leftovers. Now, only a jar of pickles, its brine filmed with mould, and curdled milk remained. He dumped it all.
Coffee churned sour in his gut. Shoving his wallet into his jacket, he took out the rubbish. On the way back, he stopped at Tesco—bread, milk, pasta, a pack of bacon, apples. He could’ve bought the whole shop but held back.
At home, he wolfed down two bacon sandwiches while the pasta boiled. The washing machine beeped.
No way the laundry would fit in the bathroom. No balcony, no dryer. He scratched his head—only one option. A washing line across the living room. No one would see. Digging through the hall cupboard, he found an old coil of rope.
Emily flashed into his mind. They’d dated for two years. His mother hadn’t objected to marriage, but he’d dragged his feet. Loved her, but her plans—always plans—irked him.
*If you don’t marry now, you never will,* his mother warned. He’d relented—but then she fell ill. Emily postponed the wedding. Who wanted a sick mother-in-law?
At first, she visited, helped cook. Then just calls, excuses. Soon, silence. He rang her after the funeral. She gave hollow condolences, never showed. He didn’t care.
He hammered a nail into the doorframe—thank God for old wooden doors—knotted the rope to the radiator.
*Would it hold my weight?* The dark thought startled him.
High heels clicked outside. The new neighbour—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The elderly couple next door had retired to Devon, rented the place out.
Usually, he’d hear her leave, return hours later, never visitors. Tonight, the steps stopped at his door.
She stared, wide-eyed, at him perched on the stool, rope in hand.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could you help me?”
He jumped down. She flinched. No wonder—he looked ghastly. Unshaven, hollow-eyed, clothes ragged.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… lost my keys.” Her voice wavered as she rummaged through her handbag.
Oliver frowned. She’d gotten into the building somehow.
“Call the letting agent. Get a locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track.
“Fine. I’ll try.” He dug out tools, fiddled with the lock, feeling her stare.
“You hovering helps no one. Wait inside. Coffee’s still warm.”
She hesitated, then vanished into his flat. An hour later, sweat-drenched, he forced the door open. She thanked him stiffly but lingered.
“Mind if I smoke?”
He pushed the window wider. As she fumbled in her bag, keys jingled. *She never lost them.* The realisation hit—she’d sacrificed her lock to stop him.
He said nothing, just hauled the washing out, strung it up while she watched.
“I heard about your mother,” she said.
“Three weeks ago. And no, I wasn’t going to hang myself. Do I look that pathetic?”
“Absolutely,” she said, blunt.
“Call a locksmith tomorrow. I broke yours.”
She shrugged. “I made too much roast this morning. Fancy some?”
“Why cook so much?”
“Force of habit. My ex insisted on Sunday roasts.”
“Alice,” she introduced herself properly. “My place or yours?”
“Yours. Let me shower first.”
He shaved, rinsed off, dressed in clean jeans and a shirt. Not bad.
Her flat smelled heavenly—roast beef, wine, fresh salad. They ate, chatting lightly, avoiding sore spots, slipping into first names.
“When did you last just… walk?” Alice asked.
“Dunno.”
“Let’s go. After dishes.”
He watched her arrange plates meticulously, adjust the towel, then deliberately misalign it.
“Why rent? Not a student. Not new to London.”
“Left my husband. Mum adores him—would’ve nagged me back. So… here.”
“Too tidy for you?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You lined the bowls up like soldiers.”
She laughed bitterly. “He was a machine. Even in bed. No spontaneity.”
“Sounds dead boring.”
“Worse. He’d rage if a fork was crooked. But reliable, Mum says. The roast… old habit.”
They wandered for hours, returning late, lingering in the hallway.
“Your place or mine?” Alice murmured. “Will you call me strange first, or just take me to bed?”
Oliver grinned. “You *are* strange. Amazing.” He scooped her up, heart pounding as she laughed into his neck.
Soon, Alice moved in. Newlyweds took her old flat.
And for the first time in years, Oliver felt alive.
