William pushed open the window and climbed onto the sill. The black tarmac below seemed to whisper and threaten, pulling him into its void.
Life often feels like a winding forest path—never knowing where it twists, what waits beyond the next bend. William Fairchild couldn’t have imagined he would lose his happiness, only to stumble upon it again, altered yet familiar.
He had never rushed into marriage, holding out for a kindred spirit. When he spotted Emily in that café, his heart leapt—*her*. Without hesitation, he slid into the seat beside her. They loved the same books, the same films, ice-skating on frosty weekends, both dreaming of a home full of laughter and children.
And for a while, it all unfolded as they’d hoped—except for the children. Emily visited doctors, tried remedies, even traveled to holy sites, clinging to hope. Then, one day, she *knew* she was pregnant. She waited, cautious, before visiting the clinic. But when her belly swelled unmistakably, she went in.
It wasn’t a child. It was a tumour. Each time William accompanied Emily to the oncology ward, he caught the hollow stares of the patients, as if listening for death’s approach. Soon, he saw that same look in Emily’s eyes.
He refused to leave her side. First, he took leave, then unpaid time, until the GP, sympathetic, signed him off. But his boss summoned him: return or resign. William chose the latter.
Days blurred into nights as he cared for her. He held her hand when her breath grew ragged, begged God not to part them—to take him too.
Nothing worked. Three months later, Emily was gone.
The flat echoed with absence after the funeral. Her dressing gown still hung on the chair, as if she might step into it. Her boots waited by the door, the winter coat they’d bought on sale last spring. Every corner whispered her name. William buried his face in her pillow, howling, then dragged himself to the shop for two bottles of gin.
Morning came, thick with regret. The pain surged anew. He poured the unfinished gin down the sink, then paused—*what did it matter now?*
Days were bearable; nights were torture. One evening, he stood by the window, staring at the city’s glow. *What’s keeping me here?* The flat? Let it rot. No job, no wife, no children. He swung a leg over the sill. The tarmac yawned below. Fourth floor—enough to end it. *Or what if it doesn’t?*
A knock. For a heartbeat, he teetered—then stepped back and answered. Mrs. Wilkins, the neighbour, scowled at him.
“Saw your light. You’re not the only one who can’t sleep. Thought I’d check if you’d done something daft.” Her eyes flicked to the open window. “Planning a jump? Because listen—do that, and you’ll *never* see Emily again. Suicide’s a sin. God won’t let you into heaven if you cheat His timing.”
“Just airing the place,” he muttered.
She huffed. “Don’t be a fool, William.”
He barely shut the door before the urge faded. The sin of it gnawed at him. Sleepless, he packed a bag at dawn, tucking in a photo of Emily. Savings gone, spent on her treatment. His gaze snagged on her abandoned gown. He turned away, locked up, and knocked on Mrs. Wilkins’s door.
“Off somewhere?” She eyed his bag.
“To Mum’s. Can’t stay here. I’ll drink myself dead.”
“Smart. How long?”
“Dunno. Mind the flat?” He tossed her the keys. “You’ve got my number.”
He drove for hours, foot heavy on the gas. A dark thought whispered—*let go of the wheel*—but innocent lives could’ve been lost.
His hometown felt smaller, grimier. Summer visits had softened its edges; spring left it bare. The gate hinges screeched as he stepped through. His mother rushed out, hands flying to her mouth.
“William! No warning? You’re alone?”
He hugged her, breathing in the scent of home. He’d thought his tears were spent—yet here they were.
They talked for hours. She mourned Emily with him, fed him, fussed. “Home’s where you heal, love. Remember when you’d bolt in from school…”
Her voice soothed him. Here, Emily’s ghost loosened its grip.
That evening, light glowed in the neighbour’s window.
“Mum, who’s there? Didn’t Mrs. Baker pass?”
“That’s Sarah. Came back last year—husband’s in prison. Gambling, or worse. Brought her little boy. And that lad, Liam—ten, no papers. Ran from drunk parents. Sarah’s scared social services’ll take him. Works at Tesco now. I mind the baby sometimes.” She caught herself. “Sorry, love. Rambling.”
“S’alright.”
Night brought restless dreams of Emily—and Sarah, his first love, who’d chosen Mike from the year above.
Days later, he woke to a flickering glow outside.
“Fire!” His mother burst in.
He raced out, barely grabbing his boots. Neighbours hauled buckets; sirens wailed. Sarah stood shivering in a nightdress, clutching her toddler. Liam hovered, wide-eyed.
“Come inside,” William urged.
His mother bundled them in, brewing tea. “What happened?”
Sarah coughed. “Woke to smoke. Grabbed the boys. Everything’s gone—*papers*, everything…”
“Stay with us,” William said. “My flat’s empty. We’ll sort the rest.”
For days, they camped at his mum’s. Then he drove them to his place. The halls echoed with shrieks and footsteps—silence shattered.
“You take the big room,” he told Sarah.
“I can’t—”
“I wasn’t coming back anyway.” He stuffed Emily’s gown into the wardrobe.
Mrs. Wilkins cornered him later. “Moving on *awfully* fast.”
“Her house burned down. Where else would she go?”
That night, over tea, William laid plans. “I’ll get my job back. We’ll fix your papers. Liam needs school—”
But Liam vanished by morning.
“He’ll survive,” William said, though Sarah wept.
Living together, sharing space—avoidance became impossible. Old feelings flickered. When he mentioned moving out, Sarah stopped him.
“So I’m kicking you out? *I* should go—”
“And live on what?” He sighed. “I’ll never forget Emily. But seeing you every day…”
She gripped his hand. “Open your eyes, William. I *love* you.”
Grief couldn’t chain him forever. Life moved on.
But that’s another story.
