It felt like we’d never been apart at all…
Every day, Emily walked home hoping James would return. She knew he’d left his keys behind when he walked out, but still, she imagined opening the door to find his trainers in the hallway. But no such miracle happened this time.
They’d been together two years. He’d filled the void after her mother passed. And yet, why had she started *that* conversation? There’d never been fiery passion between them—just quiet comfort. But James never proposed, never spoke of a future, *their* future.
“Do we ever move forward?” Emily had asked one evening.
“You mean marriage? What would that change?”
“It matters to me. If it doesn’t to you, maybe we should call it quits?” She’d said it lightly, hoping to nudge him toward commitment.
“Fine, let’s end it then,” he’d replied abruptly, and left.
A week alone had passed. She waited. Should she call? Beg him to come back? But if a man walks away that easily, he never loved her.
He’d entered her life when she’d needed someone most. Two years ago, a van driver had a heart attack at the wheel, ploughed into a bus stop. Her mother and another woman died instantly; others were injured but survived. The driver passed in hospital after learning of the deaths—massive heart failure.
News outlets covered it for days. After the funeral, Emily moved through days like a ghost. Then she nearly stepped in front of James’s car. He slammed the brakes, leapt out shouting—until he saw her face. He took her home that night and stayed.
He was three years younger. Not much, yet it felt like decades. He never planned ahead, lived day by day, brushed off talk of children. “Kids? Plenty of time for that. Em, aren’t we happy as we are?”
But she wanted a proper family. Picking out prams and babygros together. The conversations only irritated him.
At home, she deliberately left her phone in her bag to stop checking every minute. Every morning, her heart lurched scanning for texts. James never messaged.
Another empty evening. Some film droned on telly. Emily stared without seeing, lost in thought—until the muffled ringtone from the hallway startled her. She fumbled through her bag—purse, hairbrush, odds and ends—before grabbing it. Not James. She answered anyway, fearing his battery died or, worse, an accident—
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
Instantly, she stopped caring who it was.
“I’m your Aunt Charlotte’s neighbour. She passed this morning.”
Aunt Charlotte? What neighbour? Who *was* this woman? Then—a flicker of memory. A round, cheerful woman, like Mrs. Pepperpot. She’d cover her mouth when she laughed—front teeth knocked out by a drunken husband. Her house smelled of oven-fresh bread and apple pie.
Young Emily had longed for summers at Aunt Charlotte’s. Then Mum said they wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t recall why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Charlotte altogether.
“You there?” The voice dragged her back.
“Yes. What happened?”
“Doctor said it was a blood clot. Village hospital, not like city care. We kept her home, but this heat… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?” Emily had no intention of going.
“Day after tomorrow, as is proper. If you can’t, we’ll reschedule—”
“No, I’ll come. How do I get there? I’ve forgotten.”
“Course you have. Take the bus to Hollowbrook, then walk the rest—shall I meet you?”
“No need.”
“Please come. You’re all she had left…”
*I won’t go. Why should I? I barely remember her. How’d this woman even get my number?* Emily opened the wardrobe. There—the dress she’d buried Mum in. *Mum… She’d have gone.*
She packed a long navy skirt with white daisies, a black blouse—nothing else suitable for a funeral.
Next morning, she handed in a leave request.
“Take more time if needed,” her manager said gently.
Emily went home, gathered her things, and headed to the station. Missed the first coach; waited two hours for the next. Killed time at a café, bought biscuits, wine—couldn’t arrive empty-handed.
The whole ride, she questioned this pointless trip. By the time she stepped off, the sun hung low but still fierce. Sweat glued her blouse to her skin. A car pulled up ahead; a man got out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How—”
“Don’t remember me? Nick.”
Some scrawny, snot-nosed boy flashed in her mind. Impossible this handsome man was him.
“Get in. Everyone’s waiting.”
“For *me*?”
“Your aunt’s funeral. Sorry about your mum. Neighbour Nina fretted about finding next of kin. Guess she did.”
“The one who called? How’d she get my number?”
“Must’ve been when your mum visited. We’re here.” He cut her off before she could ask when Mum had ever come.
A short, kind-faced woman hurried over before Emily stepped out.
“Look at you!” The woman hugged her—smelling of milk, bread, something achingly familiar. Sensing Emily’s stiffness, she stepped back. “Come inside.”
The door was unlocked.
“Left it open in case you arrived when I wasn’t looking. This is your house now. Charlotte had no one else. Husband gone, sister—your mum—too. You’re the only heir. She always said it’d be yours.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Your mum left it last visit, just before she passed. Tried her old number too—disconnected. Those two hadn’t spoken years, then suddenly your mum turns up… Felt it coming, I reckon.”
“Why’d they fall out?”
“A man, o’course. Michael—Charlotte’s husband—loved your mum first. Followed her to London, got rejected, came back and married Charlotte. Handsome devil, all the girls fancied him. At first, they were happy. Then your mum visited with you. After you left, Michael drank, beat her so bad she lost every baby.”
Next summer, you returned—older now. Charlotte told your mum to leave you behind when she left. They rowed. Both too proud. Your mum took you home and never brought you back. When Michael drank himself to death, Charlotte stayed alone. She adored you. Then, just before she died, your mum visited—they made peace…”
“She never told me.”
“Must’ve had her reasons. Yesterday, I found a note with your details in her things. She’d prepared, see? They say death comes in threes. Michael four years back, your mum, now Charlotte… Soup’s still in her fridge… The women’ll come tomorrow to ready the wake… Staying long?”
“Just till after the funeral.”
“Rest then. House is yours.”
Alone, Emily wandered the unfamiliar rooms—no memories except a vague sense of Aunt Charlotte. Flicked through dusty magazines, saw childish scribbles in one. *Could that be mine?*
The linen cupboard smelled of starch and lavender—Charlotte’s touch. Fridge held cheese, butter, uneaten soup. *She didn’t plan to die.* Emily couldn’t stomach a bite.
She felt like an intruder. *What’s this house to me?* Tomorrow, she’d leave forever. Let the neighbours take what they wanted—no room for veg in her flat.
Dusk fell. Village lights winked behind thin curtains. Emily switched off the lamp, undressed, and slipped under crisp sheets—kindly laid by Nina.
Just as sleep took her—*creak*. Floorboards groaned. Emily froze. *A ghost? Do ghosts tread so loud?*
Something thudded; a man cursed. *Not a ghost. Worse.*
She grabbed the fireplace poker, edged to the door—heart hammering.
“Who’s there?”
A torch beam died instantly. The door flew open, knocked her back—she tripped, landed hard. Scrambled up, flicked the light on—*damn modesty*. A knock at the window made her jump.
“Emily? It’s Nina!”
She yanked the door open—locked earlier?—and clung to the nightgowned woman.
“Someone was inside—a man!”
“Likely just Steve. Nuisance, that one—drinks, steals. Money gone?”
“He didn’t get in here.”
“Saw your light flickering—come stay with us?”
“No.” Emily locked up, but slept only at dawn’s first cockcrow.
Another knock woke her. Sun flooded the room.
“Open up! Charlotte’s coming home.”
She dressed, let in bustling women—ignoring her as if she weren’t there. Outside, the hearse arrived. Villagers gathered, murmuring at the coffin. Emily looked away.
Later, Nick offered his car for the cemetery.
Returning, the house was transformed—table laden with funeralBack in London, as she unlocked her flat, Emily realized the past week had given her not just a house, but a new beginning—and perhaps, a love as steady as the old oak in Aunt Charlotte’s garden.
