Stronger Than Death
Eleanor opened her eyes. The clock on the wall read half past seven in the morning. Beside it hung a photo of her husband with a black mourning ribbon tucked into the corner. This was how every morning began—her gaze flickering between the clock and her husband’s smiling face, or the other way around. *”Good morning, love,”* he used to say. Only now, he couldn’t kiss her like he once had.
***
After nine days, before leaving, her daughter removed the mourning ribbon from the portrait. That morning, Eleanor woke, saw the photo frame stripped of the ribbon, and for a blissful moment, she thought her husband’s death had been a nightmare.
She stepped into the kitchen, where her daughter was flipping pancakes.
“Has Dad already left for work?” she asked.
Her daughter spun around, blinking in confusion.
“Mum, you’re scaring me. First, it’s Saturday. Second… we buried Dad yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
Eleanor sank into a chair.
“You took the ribbon off the portrait. I thought…”
The grief crashed over her again, heavier than ever, pressing down like a slab of stone until she couldn’t breathe. Her daughter crouched in front of her, eyes searching hers.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I’ll put it back—I didn’t think…”
When Eleanor returned to the bedroom, the portrait once again bore the mourning ribbon. It didn’t help. It made things worse. A sweet delusion was better than this crushing reality, but she didn’t say so aloud.
“Maybe come stay with us for a bit? A change of scene?” her daughter suggested.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. I haven’t lost my mind. It’s just… seeing the photo without the ribbon made me wish it was all a bad dream. I’ll stay here. *With Dad*,” she nearly added but stopped herself—no need to frighten her daughter further.
“I wasn’t implying anything—just offering.”
“You were,” Eleanor said.
“Don’t be cross, Mum.”
Her daughter left, promising to call daily. She’d married a university sweetheart and moved to his hometown after graduation. She was happy there.
***
Eight months passed, but the pain hadn’t dulled. Eleanor had simply learned to live with it. She stepped into the bathroom, turned on the tap. A lightbulb flickered and died. *”Good,”* she thought, rinsing sleep from her face. *”Bad lighting makes my reflection less frightening.”*
Outside, trees and bushes wore a faint green haze of budding leaves. The sky was grey and heavy.
Eleanor turned from the window, set her empty coffee mug in the sink, and dressed. Weekends often meant visits to the cemetery, especially now that the snow had melted and the ground had dried. Today marked exactly eight months since her husband’s death. To Eleanor, it felt like one endless day of sorrow.
At the cemetery gates, women sold fresh and artificial flowers. Eleanor chose fresh ones. Over eight months, his grave had been swallowed by newer ones. She cleared the withered blooms, laid down fresh ones, straightened the ribbons on the wreaths, and traced her fingers over his sun-faded photo. She’d need to replace it soon. Her daughter and son-in-law would visit in summer—then they’d finally erect a headstone.
The priest at the funeral had said, *”With God, all are alive.”* Those words had lodged in her heart like a stubborn hope. Maybe that’s why she kept coming here—because here, she felt her husband’s presence most keenly. Not beneath the earth, but somewhere above, in the heavens where souls were said to return.
“Hello, love. You’ve got new company, I see. I’m surrounded by people too, yet I still feel alone without you. Our daughter calls every day. She’s well. Remember how you tried to talk her out of marrying Tom? They’re happy.”
“She thought she might be pregnant, but it was just a late period. Relieved and disappointed all at once. Not ready for kids yet. But she promised if it’s a boy, she’ll name him after you. That alright?”
“I miss you so much. I’ve been a mess—dropping things, breaking dishes. Even your favourite mug. Sorry. I meant to pack it away. Spilled tea yesterday. Keep forgetting groceries at the shop. Left cucumbers last week. Our daughter says I’m feeding the whole neighbourhood. Work’s no better—I make so many mistakes, they’ll sack me soon. The bathroom lights burnt out. Did you buy spares? I couldn’t find any.”
A raindrop landed on her head.
“It’s starting to rain. Suppose I’ve said all there is. I’ll be back soon. Until then, my love.” She wiped her tears and walked away, weaving between the fresh graves.
The bus took forever. Eleanor was soaked and shivering by the time it arrived. The thought of returning to an empty flat made her chest ache.
A removal van blocked the entrance, doors wide open as movers hauled boxes and furniture toward the lift. A neighbour stood grumbling in the narrow path.
“Afternoon. New neighbours moving in?” Eleanor asked.
“Afternoon, love. Sixth floor, I think. The Browns sold up ages ago—bought a house. You’re on the seventh, right? So they’ll be under you. Right, off to the shops—granddaughter’s home alone…”
Eleanor took the lift upstairs, stepped inside, and was met by silence. She kicked off her shoes, headed to the kitchen, and stepped straight into a puddle.
“Perfect. Just what I needed.”
Under the sink, a steady drip escaped the cold water valve. She tried tightening it—only made it worse. Saturday. Calling a plumber meant shutting off water for the whole building. She grabbed a bucket, mopped the floor, and knocked on the downstairs flat. The door was ajar.
“Hello? I might be flooding you!” she called.
A man in his forties peeked out. Eleanor startled.
“Hi. I’m your upstairs neighbour. Pipe’s leaking—mind if I check?”
“Come in.”
The kitchen ceiling bore a damp patch.
“Sorry, I’ll cover the repairs,” Eleanor said.
“Don’t bother. Planned to redecorate anyway. Let’s take a look upstairs. Called a plumber?”
“He won’t come till Monday. Whole building’ll be without water.”
“Right. Let me unload, find my toolbox, then I’ll pop up.”
Two hours later, he arrived. Eleanor had been sponging up spills the whole time. He worked under the sink—ten minutes of tinkering—while she hovered, remembering how her husband hated being questioned mid-repair.
“That’ll hold till Monday. Still, call a plumber. Mind if I check the bathroom?”
She didn’t object.
“Ah,” he said, spotting the dead bulbs. “I’ll pick up new ones tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to—I’ll pay.”
He studied her. “Tea will do.”
He had a nice smile. Eleanor flushed.
True to his word, he replaced the bulbs the next day. Light flooded the room, lifting the gloom. He even fixed a wobbly socket. She served tea and biscuits.
“You don’t recognise me, do you?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“Your name’s uncommon. What did your mum call you as a kid?”
“Needle. Skinny as a pin, my nan said. How d’you know me?”
“I’m a doctor. Worked at the hospital where your husband was brought after the crash. We remember the ones we couldn’t save. You sat in the corridor—no screaming, no wailing. Just silent tears. His injuries… there was no chance. We couldn’t help him.”
Eleanor stared at the table, nodding.
“Now I’ve made you cry again. Every time you see me, you’ll remember.”
“You just took me back there. I still can’t…”
“I’ll go. Got renovations—noise, drilling.”
“Doesn’t matter. I understand.”
Days passed. She worked; he hammered. Oddly, the noise comforted her—drowned out the sorrow.
Fancy that. The last person to see her husband alive now lived beneath her. She wasn’t sure how to feel. Did it matter? Yet somehow, it did.
Occasionally, they crossed paths in the stairwell. He’d greet her, studying her with quiet concern. Spring warmed into May. Eleanor swapped black for a floral dress, pinned up her hair differently. Colleagues noticed.
“Good for you. Life goes on. You’re young—you’ll find love again…”
“I dress for myself. Black in summer’s miserable,” she snapped.
*”I don’t want anyone. How can they—?”* she told her reflection, knowing she lied.
One evening, he caught her on the stairs.
“Fancy joining me for a film?”
Go to the pictures with a stranger while her husband was barely cold? He clocked her hesitation.
“CanAs she slipped her hand into his and they walked toward the cinema, Eleanor realized—life hadn’t stopped for her after all, and perhaps that was okay.
