**Diary Entry**
It feels as though we were never truly apart.
Every day, Emily walked home hoping to see James waiting for her. She knew he didn’t have keys—he’d left them behind when he walked out. Still, she couldn’t help imagining opening the door to find his trainers by the entrance. But no such miracle happened.
They’d lived together for two years. He’d filled the emptiness after her mother’s death. And then—why had she even brought it up? There’d never been fireworks between them, just quiet comfort. But James never spoke of marriage, never mentioned a future, *their* future.
“What happens next?” Emily finally asked one evening.
“You mean a ring and a piece of paper? What difference would it make?”
“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 into action.
“Fine,” he replied—just like that—and left.
Now, a week alone. Waiting. Should she call? Ask him to come back? But if a man walks away that easily, he was never really in love.
James had appeared in her life when she needed someone most. Two years ago, a delivery 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 died in hospital after hearing the news—massive heart failure.
The accident made every news bulletin. After the funeral, Emily moved through the days in a daze. She nearly stepped in front of James’ car. He slammed the brakes, stormed out shouting—then saw her face and stopped. He drove her home. Stayed.
He was three years younger. Not a huge gap, but Emily sometimes felt decades stretched between them. He never planned anything, lived day by day, brushed off talk of children. “What’s the rush? We’ve got time, Em. Aren’t we happy as we are?”
She wanted the whole thing—marriage, kids, picking out prams and babygros. The thought seemed to irritate him.
At home, she deliberately left her phone in her handbag to avoid checking it every minute. The temptation to call gnawed at her. Each morning before work, her heart thudded as she scanned for messages. Nothing.
Another empty evening. Some film played on the telly, but she barely noticed. A muffled ringtone from the hallway barely registered at first. She fumbled through her bag—wallet, hairbrush, the usual clutter—then finally grabbed it. Not James. Her stomach lurched—what if his battery had died? What if he’d crashed?
“Emily?” An older woman’s voice.
Her interest evaporated.
“It’s your Aunt Maggie’s neighbour. Margaret passed this morning.”
Aunt Maggie? What neighbour? Who *was* this woman? Then—a flicker of memory. A small, round woman, always smothering a toothless grin (her drunk ex-husband had knocked them out). The scent of woodsmoke and fresh pies.
As a child, Emily had begged to visit Aunt Maggie each summer. Then one day, her mother said they wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t remember why. Eventually, she forgot Aunt Maggie entirely.
“You there?”
“Yes. What… what happened?”
“Blood clot, the doctor said. Our little hospital here—not like the city. We could’ve left her at home, but with this heat… Will you come?”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Wednesday, as tradition goes. If you can’t, just say—we can—”
“No, I’ll be there.” The lie slipped out. “How do I get there? I don’t remember.”
“Oh, love, of course you wouldn’t.” The woman brightened. “Little village called Morton Brook. Two hours by coach, less by car.”
“I’ll take the coach,” Emily said, remembering James had taken the car.
“Get off at Lower Denton—no stop for ours, you’ll walk the last stretch. Should I meet you?”
“No need.”
“Do come. She’s got no one else…”
*I won’t go. Why should I? I barely remember her.* But as she opened the wardrobe, her mother’s funeral dress caught her eye. *Mum… She’d have gone.*
She packed a long navy skirt, a black blouse—nothing else seemed appropriate.
At work next morning, she requested three days’ leave.
“Take longer if needed,” her boss said gently.
Back home, she gathered her things and headed for the station. Missed the first coach; the next wasn’t for two hours. No point returning. She killed time in station cafés, bought biscuits, wine—couldn’t arrive empty-handed.
The whole journey, she questioned why she was going. By the time she stepped off the coach, the sun burned low but fierce. Sweat glued her clothes to her skin. A car pulled over ahead. A man stepped out.
“Emily?”
“Yes. How did—?”
“Don’t remember me? It’s Daniel.”
A memory surfaced—some scrawny, snot-nosed kid. Impossible this was him.
“Hop in. Everyone’s waiting.”
“For *me*?”
“Well, your aunt’s passed. We heard about your mum. Sorry.” He shifted gears. “Aunt Nora was worried you’d no family left. Suppose she found you.”
“The woman who phoned? How’d she get my number?”
“Your mum must’ve left it when she visited.”
“Mum came *here*?”
Before she could ask more, they arrived. A short, kindly woman hurried over.
“Look at you!” She hugged Emily—smelling of milk, bread, something achingly familiar. Sensing Emily’s stiffness, she pulled back. “Come inside.”
The door was unlocked.
“Left it open in case I missed you.” She ushered her in. “This is your home now. Maggie had no one else—no kids, her sister’s gone. She always said you’d inherit.”
“How *did* you know how to reach me?”
“Your mum left the number when she visited. Tried her mobile first—disconnected. Those two hadn’t spoken for years, then suddenly your mum turns up… Like she knew.”
“Why did they fallout?”
“A man, of course. Maggie’s Tom fancied your mum first. Followed her to London, got rejected, came back and married Maggie. Handsome devil—girls swooned. At first, it worked. Then your mum visited with you. That was it. After you left, Tom turned vicious. Beat Maggie so badly she lost every baby.”
Next summer, they returned. Maggie begged your mum to leave you behind. They fought. Both stubborn as mules. Your mum took you and never brought you back. Tom drank himself to death. When your mum visited just before she died… they made peace.”
“She never told me.”
“Must’ve had her reasons. Yesterday, I found a note in Maggie’s things—your address, number. She was ready.”
“They say death comes in threes,” the woman rattled on. “Tom four years back, your mum, now Maggie. Soup’s still in her fridge… The wake’s tomorrow. Neighbours will cook. Staying long?”
“Just till after the funeral.”
The neighbour left. Emily wandered the unfamiliar house. She recognised nothing. Flicked through old magazines, childhood scribbles in the margins. Only hers—no other children.
The linen cupboard smelled faintly of Maggie—ironed sheets still warm from her hands. The fridge held butter, cheese, uneaten soup. Emily’s stomach turned.
She felt like an intruder. Why claim a house she couldn’t remember? Tomorrow, she’d leave and never return. Let the neighbours take what they wanted.
Darkness fell early in the village. Curtains left gaps, blue TV light flickering through. Emily undressed, slid under crisp sheets—grateful for the neighbour’s kindness.
Just as she drifted off—footsteps. Floorboards creaked. Her blood froze. A thud, a man’s muttered curse. Not a ghost—worse. A thief?
She grabbed a log from the hearth, edged to the door—
“Who’s there?”
A torch beam died instantly. The door slammed into her; she tripped, landed hard. Flicked the lights on—no shame if the village saw her in her knickers now. A knock at the window made her jump.
“Emily? It’s Aunt Nora.”
She unbolted the door, fell into the woman’s arms. “Someone was inside—”
“Probably Stevie. Nuisance, that one—drinks anything not nailed down. I’ll tell Daniel. He’s police round here. Anything stolen?”
“He didn’t get to the bedroom.”
“Saw your light flickering. Fancy staying with us?”
“No.” She double-locked the doors, barely slept till dawn.
Next morning, women bustled in with pots and plates, ignoring her. Outside, the sun blazed—She realized, as the village faded in the rearview mirror, that sometimes life leads you back to where you truly belong.
