A Jar of Jam Nobody Expected
At first, she just vanished. The woman from the fourth floor—Martha Wilkinson. Quiet, thin, always in a long coat with a single button clinging on for dear life, carrying a plastic bag from the local Tesco. Her eyes held a strange weariness no amount of sleep could wash away. She walked briskly, as if always late, though truthfully, she had nowhere to be. Always alone, in any weather. Sometimes she lingered by the entrance with a cigarette—smoking hungrily but briefly, as if afraid to reveal too much of herself. And when she disappeared, no one noticed. Maybe she’d fallen ill. Maybe gone to visit relatives. Or, as often happened in these old brick flats, she’d started renovations and was temporarily staying with friends. In nine-story buildings like this, such stories were endless. Only the bench she’d favoured sat empty—a tiny crack in everyday life nobody bothered to patch.
Except for Oliver. He’d just moved in—divorce, court hearings, his son stayed with the ex. Lost his job. Everything collapsed in a single autumn. The new flat felt foreign, from the peeling lift to neighbours who never greeted him. Only Martha looked him in the eye. Sometimes she left notes under his door: *“Your meter’s ticking again.”* Or *“Post came for you, I took it up.”* Once, she handed him a jar of jam—*“Extra, didn’t know what to do with it.”* He opened it—the taste was odd, like berries picked too soon. Bitter. But he ate it. Maybe out of politeness. Maybe because it was the first kindness he’d known in years. After that, he listened for her steps through the wall. Waited for them. Funny how quickly a person gets used to someone else’s life.
A fortnight later, he caught the smell. Faint but wrong—the kind that makes you crack a window even in January. Knocked on her door. Silence. Waited a day. Rang. Nothing. Called the police. They broke in.
She lay on the hallway floor, the bag dropped—apples scattered across the laminate. Must’ve tripped. The paramedic said it was her heart. Or a stroke. No calls, no notes, no tears.
For weeks, Oliver couldn’t shake that smell. It wasn’t death. It was loneliness. Dusty air where breath no longer lingered. The flat was immaculate—signed books, clean dishes, a windowsill of tiny cacti, each with a paper tag. Like she’d lived in a one-woman play. Nobody came looking. No family. No neighbours. Just Oliver, reporting it to the council. The only one in the whole estate.
Three months passed. He started waking at night. Thoughts came in fragments, leaving him certain he’d missed something. Smoked by the window, staring at the dark pane of her flat—black as a stage after tragedy. Then, one night, a light flickered on.
He went up. Knocked. Was about to leave when the door opened. A young woman stood there—red hair, slender wrists, eyes eerily like hers. She looked past him, into the flat. Into the past.
*“I’m her niece,”* she said. *“Martha was my aunt. Clearing her things. Fancy a cuppa?”*
He stepped inside. Everything was different—curtains, scent, walls. But the air… still carried traces of jam. And solitude. The niece was Emily. Came from Canterbury. Said they hadn’t spoken in years—a silly quarrel. Then she saw a notice online and realised she was too late. Not much remained: a few boxes, photos, books. An old sticker album. She held it in her lap, fingers brushing the cover, as if searching for forgiveness.
They talked. Oliver helped with the packing. Offered tea. She stayed a week. Then two. Rented a flat nearby. They started seeing each other—no fanfare, no drama. Just quiet. He began writing again; she sold second-hand books. They took trips—first to the coast, then Canterbury.
One day, he found another jar of jam. Top shelf. Unlabelled. Just like before. Bitter again. He ate it silently. No bread, no sugar. Spoon by spoon. It was for her. For Martha. For her unspoken kindness. For how a person can vanish without becoming nothing. How they linger—in a jar of jam. In a smell. In a footstep. In memory.
Some people don’t come to stay. They come to remind you—you’re still alive. And when you’ve forgotten how to be yourself, they knock. Not on the door. On your soul.
Sometimes he still goes to her door. Just to stand there. Just to remember. Just—to be. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes with jam. And it’s enough.
