The graveyard smelled of damp grass and thawed earth. Spring always dragged its heels here, like death clinging to its domain, refusing to yield. The trees stood bare, with sparse swollen buds, stiff as mourners lingering after a funeral, unsure where to go next.
Oliver stood by his grandfather’s grave, gripping a wreath with a faded ribbon that read: “In loving memory.” He felt nothing—no grief, no relief. Inside, everything was frozen, like a lake under ice: smooth and cold on the surface, but deep down, something churned. He remembered hiding from his grandad’s belt as a kid, crouched behind rusty buckets in the old shed while his mum called from the doorstep, “Oliver, don’t provoke him!” Back then, fear tangled with resentment, but mostly, it was the crushing sense that no one truly heard him.
The village was dying. Of the dozen cottages left, only half still clung on. Roofs sagged like toothless grins, fences leaned as if they’d been put up in a hurry. Children’s laughter had long faded; the smell of fresh bread was gone. The young had fled—some to the city, some abroad, never looking back. The old passed away one by one, like clockwork. Those left behind wandered empty-eyed, like sentries waiting for a relief that wouldn’t come.
Oliver had left twenty years ago—first to college, then the army, then off to Scotland for work. Now he was back. Grandad had died suddenly; a neighbour had called: “Come quick, he’s gone cold.”
He’d thought: bury him, sell the house, and be done with it. He was ready for the damp in the cottage, the musty smell, the stern-faced photo of Grandad on the wall. Ready for everything—except running into Emily.
She was barely recognisable. The girl who’d once splashed after him through puddles now stood by the well, bucket in hand—strong, steady, grown. Her hair was twisted into a tight braid, her hands rough from work, but her eyes were alive, sharp as ever, only deeper now, like a hidden spring. She looked at him straight on, no-nonsense, as if she saw right through him—and accepted him, just like that, like he’d never left.
“Staying long?” she asked, no smile, just warmth, like she already knew the answer.
“Funeral, sell the place…” He shrugged, glancing away. “Why’re you still here? Everyone else left.”
“I stayed,” she said, shifting the bucket. After a pause, she added, “Someone had to.”
The words stung. Her voice, calm and sure, had already written him off with the rest. It needled him like a splinter.
That evening, he didn’t drive back to town. He stayed. Boarded up the broken window, scrubbed the floors, shook out dusty curtains. Hauled water from the well. Slept on the creaky sofa, listening to the woods hum and owls call beyond the walls.
By week’s end, selling the house didn’t seem right anymore. Oliver chopped wood, patched the roof, mended the fence. Mornings rang with the saw; evenings smelled of smoke and strong tea. He ate on the porch, watching sunset bleed through the pines. Emily brought pies sometimes, or just dropped by to sit. Their talks were short, but the silence between them was easy, familiar. She’d dust the shelves, pour tea, as if it had always been this way.
“You know, Oliver,” she said once, staring out the window. “It’s simple here. If you left, you don’t belong.”
No blame, just fact—cold as morning mist. It rankled. Like she’d already filed him under “not one of us.”
He stayed. Spring passed, then summer, autumn settling in. He woke without an alarm, knew where the matches lived when the power cut out. Fixed the old bathhouse. Got chickens. Stacked firewood just for the neatness of it. Found his mum’s photo album—and for the first time in years, he cried. Quietly, like something inside had cracked. Or maybe knit back together.
When a buyer came, Oliver turned him down. No explanations, just: “Not for sale.” The bloke shrugged, climbed into his car, and left, kicking up dust and petrol fumes.
“So now what?” Emily asked when he walked back. “Staying?”
He nodded. No fanfare, no fuss—just “yeah.” Her face stayed calm, but her eyes warmed, like sunlight breaking through fog. She held his gaze a second longer, as if really seeing him for the first time.
“Alright then,” she said. “Someone’s got to stay.”
And softer, almost a whisper:
“You’re the one who stayed.”