The corridor smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring, a familiar evening scent seeping through door cracks, settling on shoulders like an inescapable memory. It was the same smell from when Martha Williams was young, when children ran through the flat, pots clattered, and life—though modest—was loud and warm. The smell of her past. Her time. Her lost ordinary days, now gone forever.
She stood by the mailboxes, gripping her key as if it held more power than just unlocking a door. Above her entrance, a dim bulb still flickered, casting a pale glow on the peeling ceiling. Behind that door waited only walls, the rustle of an old tablecloth, and her own breath, echoing in the silence.
Once, Peter would greet her. He’d grumble about her being late, about the soup going cold—but his eyes always sparkled. He’d hang her coat, put the kettle on, take her hand—as if every time, he was glad she’d returned. Even in his final years, when his legs barely held him, he’d still rise to meet her. Because he knew: welcoming someone home mattered most.
After the funeral, Martha returned to the same flat. Everything was in place—the framed photos, the armchair by the window, his favourite mug, her apron. But it all felt hollow, like props in a play. The warmth had vanished, as if someone had unplugged the world, leaving only shapes without meaning.
The flat grew too large. The walls seemed to stretch away, leaving her adrift in cold, empty air. Even the dripping tap sounded louder, more unsettling. Every evening, she’d pause at the door, holding her breath—just in case. Just in case she heard his voice again: *”Where’ve you been, Martha?”*
But today was special. She turned eighty-five. An age when surprises were rare, but hope lingered—even for a call, a card, anything alive. The phone stayed silent. Her friends were long gone. Mrs. Hayes, the neighbour, had moved to Manchester to live with her daughter. Her own daughter was in Spain, calling sporadically between meetings and grandchildren’s lessons. Her grandson? He’d sent a sticker: *”Happy b-day, Nan.”* Then vanished back into his screen.
She unlocked the door, passing the mirror without a glance. The kitchen was as she’d left it: her cup, the radio, her pills, the empty windowsill where violets once thrived. She turned on the radio—an old love song played, the very one Peter had proposed to her with, right on the dance floor. She’d laughed through tears then. Now, she did the same—alone. Her throat tightened, not from sorrow, but from knowing some things never return.
*”As long as the lamp’s lit, I’m still here,”* she murmured, pouring her tea. She said it aloud, as if Peter could hear. Lightly, yet with the quiet resolve that comes with age.
At that moment, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then died. The kitchen plunged into darkness, thick and still. The air felt heavy, like childhood nights when her father never came home from the mines, and she’d hidden under blankets, believing if she stayed small, fear wouldn’t find her.
She touched the lampshade—warm, but lifeless. Without hesitation, she opened the drawer. There, tucked in the corner, was a spare. Peter always said, *”Light’s like breath. As long as it’s there, we’re alive.”* She smiled. Stepped onto the stool. Replaced the bulb. A click—and light flooded the room again, soft and golden. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat down, sipped her tea, and thought: *”As long as I can relight it, I’m not alone.”*
Then—the intercom buzzed. Her heart jumped. Who’d visit at this hour? She pressed the screen. A woman in her thirties, cheeks flushed from the cold, a red knitted hat askew, looked back, hesitant.
*”Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m Kate—from the sixth floor. You don’t know me, but… it’s my birthday today too. I thought… maybe we could have tea? I made a cake. It’s lopsided, but it’s homemade.”*
Martha studied the woman’s face. Something in her chest clenched, then loosened. She pressed the button. The lock clicked. Her heart beat faster—not from fear, but from the sudden sense that something new was possible.
The bulb above the door flickered once more. But differently now. Like a sign. As if Peter had winked from somewhere above: *”Live, Martha. Live while you can.”* And she smiled.
Because as long as the lamp burns, someone still comes. And life—it goes on. In different faces, in new voices. But it goes on.
