I stepped into Nora’s living room. It all screamed widow, as if she was forty years older than she was. Reading glasses folded on top of a book. A single mug rinsed and laid neatly on the draining rack. And the smell – damp. Hopelessness. In the living room I spun around in a circle, not sure what I was looking for. Holding a breath in my mouth, I moved up the stairs with their old worn carpet, and turned the handle of her bedroom door, thinking too late about fingerprints. Ridiculous. She’d never even know I’d been here, and even if she did find out, I could easily explain. Inside there was a single bed, like a nun’s, the plain white bedspread pulled tight. A few toiletries and a hairbrush full of grey hairs on the dressing table. It made me shudder. Nora wasn’t so much older than me, and I still thought of myself as young.

In the drawer of the bedside table was another book, hand cream – I recognised the brand name as an expensive one Claudia had once bought me for my birthday, which I’d promptly lost on the Tube while coming home drunk. The only other thing was a framed photo, in a heavy old-fashioned silver frame. I picked it up, held it to the meagre light from the window. Out in the country, we didn’t get much artificial illumination. I hadn’t understood what true darkness was until we came here. As the moon passed over the window, I saw what the picture was. A younger Nora, with long black shiny hair, bare shoulders in a white lace dress. A wedding-day shot. Her face blazing with love and joy. And the man behind her, in the black suit and white shirt, his hands sliding along her bare arms – well, that was you.

I heard a noise outside, and stumbled back, jarring my wrist against the door frame. Someone was coming.

Nora

Nora