The landing smelled of boiled cabbage and old wiring, that familiar evening scent seeping through door cracks, settling on her shoulders like a memory that refused to fade. It was the same smell from decades ago, when Martha Alice was still young—when children dashed through the flat, pots clattered, and life, though modest, was loud and alive. The scent of her past. Her time. Her lost ordinary, now forever out of reach.
She stood by the mailboxes, gripping her key so tightly it might as well have been a lifeline, not just a way inside. Above her door, a dim bulb still flickered, casting a pale blue glow on the peeling ceiling. Behind that door waited only walls, the whisper of an old tablecloth, and her own breath, too loud in the silence.
Once, Peter would meet her. He’d grumble about her being late, about the soup going cold—but his eyes always shone. He’d hang her coat, put the kettle on, take her hand—as if every homecoming was a gift. Even when his legs barely held him, he’d still rise to greet her. Because he knew: the greeting mattered most.
After the funeral, Martha returned to the same flat. Everything was there—framed photos, the armchair by the window, his mug, her apron—but it all felt like props. The warmth had vanished, as if someone had yanked a plug from the socket, leaving only hollow shapes behind.
The rooms grew vast. Walls seemed to expand, retreating, leaving her alone in the cold, spreading air. Even the dripping tap sounded louder, sharper. Every evening, she caught herself holding her breath at the door—just in case, just maybe—she’d hear his voice again: *”Where’ve you been, Martha?”*
Today was different. Her eighty-fifth birthday. An age when surprises weren’t expected but still hoped for. A call, a card—anything alive. But the phone lay silent. Old friends were gone. Mrs. Thompson next door had moved to Leicester to live with her daughter. Her own daughter was in Spain, calling rarely, squeezed between meetings and grandchildren’s lessons. Her grandson? A sticker text: *”Happy b-day, Gran.”* Then, gone, vanished back into the screen.
She unlocked the door. Walked past the mirror without looking. The kitchen was unchanged: a cup, the radio, her pills, the empty windowsill where violets once grew. She turned on the wireless. An old love song played—the one Peter had proposed to, right on the dance floor. Back then, she’d laughed through tears. Now, she did the same. Alone. Her throat tightened, not from grief, but from the impossibility of return.
*”As long as the lamp burns, I’m alive,”* she murmured, pouring tea. She said it aloud, as if Peter were near. Playful, yet with the quiet resolve only years could bring.
At that moment, the bulb above the table flickered. Once. Twice. Then—darkness. The kitchen plunged into stillness, thick and strange, like childhood nights when her father didn’t return from the mines, and she’d hidden under the blanket, believing fear couldn’t find her there.
She approached the lamp. Touched the shade. Warm, but dead. Without hesitation, she opened the drawer. There, in the corner—a spare. Peter always said, *”Light is like breath. As long as it’s there, we live.”* A small smile. Carefully, she climbed onto the stool, twisted the new bulb in place. A click—and light flooded the room again. Soft. Warm. Like a hand on her shoulder.
She sat. Sipped her tea. And thought: *”As long as I can relight it, I’m not alone.”*
Then—the buzzer. The intercom. Her heart stuttered. Who’d come at this hour? She pressed the screen. A woman, thirtyish, in a red knitted hat, cheeks pink from the cold, shifting nervously.
*”Hello… Sorry to bother you. I’m Kate—from the sixth floor. We’ve not met, but… it’s my birthday too. Thought maybe… we could have tea? I made a cake. It’s lopsided, but homemade.”*
Martha studied her face. Something in her chest tightened, then loosened. She pressed the button. The lock clicked. Her heartbeat quickened—not from fear, but the sense that something, somehow, was still possible.
The bulb above the door flickered again. But differently now. Like a sign. Like Peter winking down: *”Live, Martha. Live while you can.”* And she smiled.
Because as long as the lamp burns, someone still comes. And life—goes on. Even in new faces, new voices. It goes on.
