The graveyard smelled of damp grass and thawing earth. Spring here always lagged, as though death clung stubbornly to its dominion, unwilling to yield. The trees stood bare, their sparse buds swollen yet hesitant, like mourners lingering after a funeral, uncertain where to go next.
Jonathan stood by his grandfather’s grave, clutching 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 beneath ice: smooth and cold on the surface, yet swirling with meltwater somewhere deep. He remembered hiding from his grandfather’s belt as a boy, crouching behind rusted buckets in the old shed while his mother called from the doorstep, *”Jon, don’t provoke him!”* Back then, fear tangled with resentment, but most of all with the certainty that no one ever really listened.
The village was dying. Of the dozen cottages, only half still stood. Roofs gaped like toothless mouths, fences leaned as though hastily erected. Children’s laughter had long faded; the scent of fresh bread was gone. The young had fled—some to the city, some abroad, never looking back. The old passed one by one, as if by some unspoken schedule. Those left behind wandered with hollow eyes, sentinels waiting for a relief that would never come.
Jonathan had left twenty years ago—first to trade school, then the army, then odd jobs up north. Now he was back. His grandfather had died suddenly. A neighbour had called: *”Come quickly. He’s already cold.”*
He’d thought: bury him, sell the cottage, and be done. He was ready for the damp walls, the stale air, the old photograph of his grandfather’s stern face. Ready for everything—except for Emily.
He barely recognised her. The girl with pigtails who’d once splashed through puddles after him now stood by the well, strong and quiet, a woman grown. Her hair was plaited tight, her hands rough from work, but her eyes were alive—still bright, though deeper now, like a well. She met his gaze without a word, yet somehow saw straight through him, as if he’d never left.
*”Staying long?”* she asked, warmth in her voice though she didn’t smile.
*”Funeral. Sell the place…”* He shrugged, glancing away. *”Why’re you still here? Everyone else left.”*
*”Someone had to stay,”* she said, shifting the bucket. After a pause, she added, *”Didn’t they?”*
He had no answer. Her voice, steady and sure, seemed to have already counted him among the ones who’d gone. It stung, like a splinter working its way in.
That evening, he didn’t leave for the town. He stayed. Boarded up the broken window, scrubbed the floors, shook out the dusty curtains. Hauled water from the well. Slept on the creaking sofa, listening to the wind in the trees and the owls calling to one another.
A week passed, and the thought of selling slipped away. Jonathan chopped wood, mended the roof, straightened the fence. Mornings rang with the saw’s song; evenings smelled of woodsmoke and strong tea. He ate on the porch, watching the sunset bleed through the pines. Emily brought pies sometimes, or just came to sit. Their conversations were brief, but the silence between them was easy, familiar. She’d dust the shelves, pour the tea, as if it had always been this way.
*”You know, Jon,”* she said once, gazing out the window. *”It’s simple here. Those who left—this isn’t their place anymore.”*
Her words weren’t an accusation, just a fact—cold as morning mist. They pricked him, as if she’d already marked him among those who’d chosen *elsewhere.*
He stayed. Spring turned to summer, then autumn. He learned to wake without an alarm, knew where the matches were when the power failed. Repaired the old bathhouse. Got chickens. Stacked the firewood just so. Found his mother’s photo album—and wept for the first time in years. Quietly, as if something inside had cracked. Or maybe knit back together.
When the buyer came, Jonathan refused. No explanation, just, *”Not for sale.”* The man, weary-eyed, shrugged, climbed into his car, and left in a cloud of dust and petrol fumes.
*”So?”* Emily asked when he returned. *”Staying?”*
He nodded. No grand speeches, no sentiment—just *”Aye.”* Her face stayed calm, but her eyes warmed, like sunlight breaking through fog. She held his gaze a heartbeat longer, as if seeing him anew.
*”Right then,”* she said. *”Someone had to stay.”*
Then, almost a whisper, with the ghost of a smile:
*”You’re the one who stayed.”*
