Stronger Than Death
Agnes opened her eyes. The clock on the wall showed half past seven in the morning. Beside it hung a photograph of her husband, a black ribbon pinned to its corner. This was how every morning began now—her gaze drifting from the timepiece to his smiling face, or the other way around. “Good morning, love,” he used to say. But he couldn’t kiss her anymore.
***
Nine days after the funeral, before leaving, her daughter removed the mourning ribbon from the portrait. The next morning, Agnes woke, saw the frame stripped of its black trim, and for a breathless moment believed it had all been a nightmare.
She walked into the kitchen, where her daughter was making pancakes.
“Has your father left for work already?” she asked.
Her daughter turned sharply, eyes wide with confusion.
“Mum, you’re scaring me. First, it’s Saturday. Second… Dad was buried yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
Agnes sank heavily into a chair.
“You took the ribbon off the portrait. I thought…”
The grief crashed over her anew, a slab of stone pressing down until she could hardly breathe. Her daughter knelt before her, searching her face.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’ll put it back. I didn’t think—”
When Agnes entered the room again, the portrait bore its black ribbon once more. It didn’t help. The weight only grew heavier. A dream, a lie—anything would have been better than this wretched truth. But she didn’t say it aloud.
“Maybe you could come stay with us for a while? Get your mind off things?” her daughter asked.
“Don’t worry. I’m not losing my mind. It’s just… when I saw the picture without the ribbon, I wanted so badly for it all to be a terrible dream. I’ll stay here. With Dad.” She nearly added the last words but stopped herself—no need to frighten her daughter further.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Just a thought.”
“You did,” Agnes said.
“Don’t be upset, Mum.”
Her daughter left, promising to call every day. She’d married a university sweetheart and moved to his hometown after graduation. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, and the pain hadn’t dulled. Agnes had simply learned to live with it. She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the tap. The ceiling light flickered once before dying. “Better this way,” she thought, washing the sleep from her face. “The dimmer light softens my reflection. Less frightful.”
Outside, the trees and shrubs stood veiled in the haze of budding leaves. A few, basking in sunlight, had already unfurled their first green fingers. The sky hung heavy with clouds.
Agnes turned from the window, set her empty coffee cup in the sink, and dressed. Weekends often found her at the cemetery, especially now that the snow had melted and the earth dried. Today marked exactly eight months since her husband’s death. To Agnes, they blurred into one endless day of sorrow.
Women stood by the cemetery gates, selling fresh and artificial flowers. Agnes chose the living ones. In eight months, her husband’s grave had been swallowed by newer burials. She cleared the wilted blooms, laid down fresh ones, straightened the ribbons on the wreaths, and touched his photo. The sun had bleached it; his face was fading. She’d bring a new one next time, framed under glass. Her daughter and son-in-law planned to visit in summer—they’d erect a proper headstone then.
The priest at the funeral had said, “With God, all are alive.” The words had lodged in her heart like a stubborn hope. Perhaps that was why she came here. Somehow, the cemetery sharpened her sense of his presence—not beneath the earth, but somewhere above. They said the soul returned to Heaven, didn’t they?
“Hello. You’ve got more company now.” She glanced at the fresh graves. “Plenty of people around me, too, but I still feel so alone without you. Emily calls every day. She’s well. Remember how you tried to talk her out of marrying Robert? They’re happy, truly in love.”
“She thought she might be pregnant, but it was just a delay. Relieved and disappointed all at once. Not ready for children yet. But she promised if it’s a boy, she’ll name him after you. That all right?”
“I miss you terribly. I’ve been so clumsy—broken so much china. Your favourite mug, too. I’m sorry. Meant to put it away. Why did I even pick it up? Spilt tea yesterday. Keep forgetting groceries at the shop. Left fresh cucumbers last week. Emily says I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s no better. Mistakes every day—might lose my job soon. The bathroom lights burned out. Did you keep spares? I couldn’t find any.”
A raindrop struck her head.
“Starting to rain. Think I’ve told you everything. I’ll visit again soon. Until then, my love.” She brushed her fingers over his photo, wiped her tears, and walked away, weaving between the new graves.
The bus took forever. Agnes arrived home drenched and shivering. The empty flat yawned before her.
A lorry stood flush against the building’s steps, its doors wide open. Movers hauled out boxes, furniture, sacks, ferrying them to the lift. A neighbour blocked the narrow path, grumbling about the obstruction. The men ignored her, hefting another load.
“Excuse me—do you know which flat the new tenants are moving into?” Agnes asked.
“Oh, hello, dear. Sixth floor, I think. The Cartwrights sold their place last winter, bought a house. You’re on the seventh, yes? So they’ll be right below you. Anyway, I’m off to the shops—granddaughter’s home alone…” They squeezed past the clutter.
Agnes rode the lift up, unlocked her door. Silence pressed in like a weight. She kicked off her shoes, stepped into the kitchen—and into a puddle.
“Just what I needed!”
Under the sink, a steady trickle seeped from the cold-water valve. She tried tightening it, but the leak worsened. Saturday. Calling the emergency plumber meant cutting off water for the entire building—two days without. She set down a bucket, mopped the floor, and knocked on the flat below. The door stood ajar.
“Hello? I’m afraid I’m leaking into your flat!” she called inside.
A man in his forties peered out. Agnes startled.
“Hello. I’m your upstairs neighbour. There’s a pipe leaking in my kitchen—could you check if it’s reached you?”
“Let’s see.” He led her to his kitchen. A damp stain spread across the ceiling.
“I’ll cover the repairs,” Agnes said guiltily.
“Don’t bother. I was planning to renovate anyway. Let’s take a look upstairs. Called a plumber?”
“He’d shut off the whole building. Won’t fix it before Monday.”
“Well then. Once the movers finish, I’ll find my toolbox and come up.”
He arrived two hours later. Agnes had kept watch, emptying the bucket as it filled. For ten minutes, he worked under her sink in silence. Her husband had hated chatter while he tinkered.
“Should hold till Monday. Still, call the plumber.” He straightened with a wince. “Mind if I check the bathroom?”
She didn’t object.
“Ah.” He noted the dead bulbs. “I’ll pick up new ones tomorrow. Swap them for you?”
“You needn’t—I’ll pay,” Agnes said hurriedly.
He studied her. “Tea will do fine,” he said, smiling. It was a nice smile. Agnes flushed.
True to his word, he replaced the bulbs the next day. The room brightened instantly. He fixed a loose socket, too. Agnes served tea and biscuits.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked suddenly.
“Should I?”
“Your name’s uncommon. What did your mother call you as a child?”
“Needle. I was skinny. ‘Sharp as a needle,’ my gran said. How do you know me?”
“I’m a doctor. Worked at the hospital where they brought your husband after the crash. We remember our patients—especially the ones we couldn’t save. You sat in the corridor that day. Didn’t scream or sob. Just sat there, tears running down your face. His injuries… they were too severe. We couldn’t help him.”
Agnes stared at the table, nodding.
“Now I’ve made you cry. Every time you see me, you’ll remember.”
“You spoke, and suddenly I was back there. I still haven’t… adjusted.”
“I’ll go.” At the door, he paused. “I’ll be renovating. Drilling, sawing—noisy.”
“It’s all right. I understand.”
She worked days; by evening, her neighbour stayed quiet. She barely saw or heard him. And when she did, it was almost welcome—the noise drowned out the grief.
Strange, that the last person toThe following spring, as Agnes planted flowers on her husband’s grave, she looked up to see the doctor standing a few steps away, a single rose in his hand, and for the first time in over a year, she realized she wasn’t afraid to be happy again.
