The bus jolted over potholes, the driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the opposite lane at times. Few passengers rode at this hour—the workday wasn’t over yet.
Edward stared out the window at the blackened, slushy snow. Soon it would melt entirely, and summer would be just around the corner. Another bump sent the bus lurching, and the driver spat another curse.
“Bloody roads’ll shake the wheels off.”
Finally, the cemetery fence came into view, rows of headstones dark against the fading light.
Every visit filled Edward with the same oppressive sense of fate—the fleetingness of life, the inevitability of ending up here himself. He didn’t want to think about it. He came out of duty, not longing. Tradition demanded it—certain dates, certain rituals. Guilt gnawed at him for such thoughts, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus shuddered to a halt. The doors hissed open, and passengers stretched their legs, making straight for the stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. Edward moved slowly, scanning for fresh blooms. The wax-coated artificial petals glared garishly, making his eyes ache. At the end of the row, he spotted a woman with a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The paths were ankle-deep in puddles. He picked his way around them, but even the snow at the edges squelched underfoot. Too late, he regretted wearing his old winter boots.
Near the tree line, he turned left. His wife’s grave was easy to spot—the wooden cross stood out among the newer headstones. “Time to replace it. Or maybe wait? Let our son arrange a proper one for us both later?” The temporary markers around hers were long gone. He scanned the rows—so many fresh graves since his last visit in autumn.
He stepped over the low iron rail and sank into the wet snow, stamping it down. His socks were already damp.
“Hello, Margaret.”
The faded photograph in its frame, propped against the cross, showed her smiling. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d only been thirty-six.
He remembered that birthday. He’d rushed out for flowers, and when he returned, she’d already dressed up in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d slipped them on immediately, beaming. He’d snapped the photo right then. Felt like yesterday.
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” Edward hesitated, figuring where to place the carnations.
The grave was smothered in plastic flowers, their colors stubbornly bright as if just placed.
He crouched, plucked a single frostbitten yellow sprig from the snow near the cross, and tucked it further down at the foot of the grave. In its place, he left the carnations. The frozen earth wouldn’t take the stems, and they’d topple once the snow melted. They looked humble beside the gaudy artificial blooms—but at least they were real.
“I miss you. But I can’t come often. Forgive me. Don’t be angry. It should’ve been me here, not you. Life’s cruel that way.”
He spoke for ages, sharing news, staring at her portrait until his feet went numb. The cawing of crows punctuated the silence, making the loneliness sharper.
“I’d best go, love. Wore these old boots—soaked through now. No one to scold me anymore. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. Tidy up the grave then, bring a new photo—just like this one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me… for everything.” He sighed, stepped back over the rail, and walked toward the gates without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. By the time he boarded, his toes had gone numb.
At home, he peeled off the wet boots and socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two mugs of tea with honey. Dry wool socks, the telly murmuring, and he lay on the sofa. A film droned on. The tea made him drowsy, and sleep pulled him under…
***
Emma joined the construction crew fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckles dusting her nose, her smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. Edward couldn’t help staring. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet his gaze kept drifting to her. What was he to do? She was everywhere.
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Emma huddled into her coat collar, streetlamps flickering in her wide eyes. Edward stole glances. When the bus came, he elbowed his way in after her and sat close.
“Evening, Emma. Heading home?”
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always bought a real one. Left it on the balcony till the 30th, then we’d all decorate it together. The smell—made the whole flat festive.”
“Today’s the 30th. Got a pine on your balcony?”
Emma laughed, bright and clear. Edward was enchanted.
“Parents live miles away. Mine’s artificial. I’ll unpack it tonight, string up the lights. Hang sweets, like Mum used to. Tea by the tree after. Cosy.” She laughed again.
He pictured it—the dim room, the twinkling lights, Emma flushed as she stretched to place a bauble… the kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Can I come? Help decorate?” The words spilled out before he could stop them.
“Why?”
“To help. Then tea. Like you said.” He flushed at his own boldness. What must she think? He babbled on, “My wife and son did ours weeks ago. Came home, and it was already up. Feels… ordinary now. Could use some cheer.”
“Alright. Come on, then,” she said simply, meeting his eyes.
He assembled the tree; they draped it in tinsel and baubles, laughing, shoulders brushing. It felt like he’d known her forever. He could tell she felt it too. They drank tea after… and he left, though he didn’t want to.
On New Year’s Eve, he went back. He lied to his wife—oh, he remembered the lie, remembered Margaret’s knowing look. But he couldn’t stop. Emma pulled him like a riptide. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.
He started visiting regularly. Emma never asked questions. Sometimes, though, he caught sorrow in her eyes—the same sorrow he saw in Margaret’s when he came home.
One evening, resolved to confess, he walked home ready for tears, ready for a scene. Just don’t keep me from my son, he thought. But Margaret rushed to him, eyes wet before he could speak.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startled. Had she guessed?
Maybe it was for the best.
His mother was in hospital—critical condition. No time for confessions now.
Later, his mother moved in. She couldn’t live alone. Margaret agreed without hesitation, though the care would fall on her.
Now Edward couldn’t leave. Not with his mother depending on Margaret. They hired a carer, but Margaret came home early once to find her drunk. Fired her on the spot.
No more risks. No strangers. Margaret quit her job to care for her.
Edward went to Emma to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life—or abandon his wife and mother. Emma was young; she deserved marriage, children, not an affair.
In the hallway, she pressed against him. They stood like that a long time before she pushed him away.
He walked home, cursing himself—a coward, a liar. At work, they nodded stiffly, eyes averted. Then one day, he saw her with a young apprentice—handsome, bespectacled. Jealousy clawed at him. Days passed in a fog. Soon after, Emma married the glasses-wearing lad.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Margaret rested a month before returning to work. A routine check-up found a tumor. Then came surgery, chemotherapy, more surgery, more chemo…
At the bus stop one day, he ran into Emma.
“You look awful. Tired, or is it bad?” Her eyes flickered with worry.
“First Mum, now Margaret. My fault. I was going to leave her—the very day Mum fell ill. Couldn’t even bury her before Margaret… God’s punishing me. For loving you. For wanting to walk out.”
Emma paled.
“Then He punished me too,” she whispered.
“Why you?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. He left.” She turned away.
“I’m sorry,” was all Edward could say.
On the bus, they sat side by side, silent, lost in thought.
Margaret was fading. She shuffled along the walls to the loo and back, thin as a wraith. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Why was she sick, not him?
“Anything you fancy? You’veHe sat by her grave one last time, whispering, “If only we’d known,” before the winter wind carried his words away like the last leaves of autumn.
