Nathan suddenly realised he was standing on a stool with a rope in his hands, and how it might look to someone else. He’d been sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet on the floor, when he thought he heard his mum calling again.
“Nathan, love… Nathan…”
It happened almost every night. He’d wake to her voice, even though he knew she couldn’t be calling—not when she’d died three weeks ago. Still, he’d sit up, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. He’d worked from home to care for her. Tried hiring a carer once, but the woman ran off after three days, stealing his mum’s gold jewellery and the petty cash. After that, he didn’t trust anyone else.
Working at his computer, he’d strain to hear her, rushing at the slightest sound. Some nights, he’d doze off right at the desk. That last night, he’d bolted awake and sprinted to her room—only to find her already gone. He’d cried, begging her forgiveness for feeling relief mixed with grief. She wasn’t suffering anymore. He was free.
But three weeks alone hadn’t brought joy—just a dull, hollow loneliness.
His mum had always been lively, humming while she ironed or cleaned. He’d never imagined her fading like that.
Sleep was pointless now. He checked the clock—half past six. Outside, a dreary autumn mist hung, seeping into the flat, deadening everything. Quiet. Empty. Grey.
He felt just as lifeless. Nathan dressed and went to her room. He’d only been in once since she died, to pick out a dress for the funeral. The smell hit him first—medicine, sickness, stale air. Avoiding the crumpled bed, he yanked open the curtains and shoved the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, along with the sounds of the city waking. The room brightened, colours sharpening. A surge of energy hit him. He stripped the bedsheets—dust swirling—then gathered her dressing gown, still waiting on the chair, and dumped it all in the washing machine.
Back in the room, he swept pill bottles and a used glass into a bin bag. Covered the bed. Wiped, mopped, cleaned until the flat was spotless.
The fridge was empty. He couldn’t remember the last proper meal he’d eaten. Near the end, his mum could only stomach puréed food, and he’d just eaten the same to save effort. After the funeral, he’d lived on leftovers. Now, only a half-empty jar of pickles sat inside—skinned with mould—along with sour milk. He binned them.
Coffee curdled in his stomach. He grabbed a jacket, his card, and took the rubbish out. On the way back, he stopped at the shop for bread, milk, pasta, a bit of ham, apples… He could’ve bought the whole aisle but held back.
At home, he wolfed down two ham sandwiches while the pasta boiled. The washing machine beeped.
No balcony, no airer—just a cramped bathroom. He scratched his head. Only one option: string a line across the living room. Who’d see it, anyway?
Digging through the junk drawer—where his mum hoarded “just in case” bits—he found a coil of rope.
Unwelcome, the thought of Gemma surfaced. His ex. They’d dated two years. His mum hadn’t minded them marrying, but he’d dragged his feet. Loved her, but needed space. Gemma planned everything—weddings, futures—and it grated on him.
“Might never marry if you wait,” his mum had warned. He’d caved. Then she got sick, and Gemma postponed the wedding. Who wanted a dying mother-in-law?
At first, she’d helped cook, visited. Then just calls. Then silence. He rang once—to say his mum had died—but Gemma never showed. Didn’t miss her.
Nathan tied one end of the rope to a pipe, hammered a nail into the doorframe for the other. Thank god they’d never replaced the old wooden doors with cheap chipboard.
Climbing onto the stool, he paused. “Wonder if this’d hold my weight?” He shook his head. “Morbid thought.”
Footsteps clicked outside. New neighbour—young woman. He’d seen her once. The elderly couple who lived there had rented it out after moving to the countryside.
Usually, he heard her leave, return, but no visitors. Just the lingering scent of her perfume in the hallway.
Now, the footsteps stopped at his door.
“You left this open,” she said, peering in. Her eyes widened at the scene—him on a stool, rope in hand, flat half-wrecked.
“I, um—”
She gripped her bag. “Lost my keys. Can you help?”
Nathan jumped down. No wonder she stepped back. He looked rough—unshaven, hollow-eyed, in a stained T-shirt and worn joggers. Like a man at the end of his rope.
“How’d you get in the building, then?” he asked flatly.
She rummaged through her bag. “Must’ve dropped them inside.”
“Call the locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
An hour later, he’d jimmied the lock, sweating. She thanked him but lingered.
“Mind if I smoke?”
He opened the window wider. As she dug for cigarettes, he heard keys jingling in her bag. The realisation hit—she’d lied. Thought he was about to top himself and sacrificed her lock to stop him.
He didn’t call her out. Just went back to hanging laundry.
“I heard about your mum,” she said suddenly.
“Three weeks ago. And no, I wasn’t going to hang myself.”
“You looked it.”
He snorted. “Get the locksmith tomorrow. I broke the lock.”
“I made too much meat this morning. Want some?”
“Why’d you make extra?”
“Just did. Fancy it?”
“Sure.”
“Emily.” She offered her full name. “My place or yours?”
“Yours. Let me shower first.”
Clean-shaven, in fresh jeans and a shirt, he almost looked human again.
Her flat smelled amazing—fried meat, salad, wine ready. They ate, chatted, avoiding heavy topics, slipping into first names.
“When’s the last time you just… walked?” Emily asked.
“Dunno.”
She washed up, arranging dishes precisely, towel perfectly centred—then adjusted it with a twitch.
“Why rent? You’re not a student.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t want my mum talking me back to him.”
“Too tidy, was he?”
Her eyes flicked up. “How’d you know?”
“You lined the plates up like soldiers.”
She laughed. “Couldn’t stand it. Everything had to be *just so*. Even sex was… procedural.”
“Sounds grim.”
“He’s a decent bloke, apparently. Mum’s words.” She shrugged. “The meat’s habit. Sunday roast, his thing.”
They walked for hours, talking. Back at the building, neither wanted to part. The scent of her perfume hung between them.
“Your place or mine?” she teased. “You gonna call me strange first, or just take me to bed?”
Nathan grinned. “You *are* strange. Amazingly so.” He scooped her up, heart hammering as she laughed against his chest.
For the first time in years, he felt alive.
Soon, Emily moved in. The flat next door went to a newlywed couple.
