The Unexpected Jar of Jam
At first, she simply vanished. The woman from the fourth floor—Margaret Whitmore. Quiet, slender, always in a long coat with a single loose button, clutching a plastic bag from the local supermarket. Her eyes held a peculiar exhaustion, the kind sleep couldn’t wash away. She walked briskly, as if always late, though truthfully, she had nowhere to rush. 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. When she disappeared, no one noticed. Maybe she fell ill. Maybe she went to stay with relatives. Or, as often happened in these old tower blocks, perhaps she’d started renovations and moved in with a friend for a while. Such stories were common in ageing high-rises. Only the bench she favoured by the entrance remained empty. A small crack in the everyday, unnoticed.
Except by Oliver. He’d just moved in—divorce, court battles, his son staying with the ex-wife. Lost his job. Everything collapsed in a single autumn. In the new building, nothing felt familiar—from the peeling lift to the neighbours who never greeted him. Only Margaret looked him in the eye. Sometimes she left notes under his door: *”Your meter’s clicking again.”* Or, *”Postman left a letter—I picked it up for you.”* 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 early. The jam was bitter. But he ate it. Maybe out of politeness. Or because it was the first kindness shown to him in a long time. After that, he started listening for footsteps through the wall. Waiting for them. Funny how quickly one gets used to another’s life.
A fortnight later, he caught the smell. Faint but unmistakable—the kind that makes you open a window even in January. He knocked. Silence. Waited a day. Rang. No answer. Called the police. They broke the door down.
She lay in the hallway, the bag dropped—apples scattered across the laminate. Must’ve tripped. The doctor said it was her heart. Or a stroke. No calls. No notes. No tears.
Oliver couldn’t shake the scent from his mind. It wasn’t death. It was loneliness. It smelled of old dust, air no longer warmed by breath. The flat was tidy. Labelled books, clean dishes, a windowsill lined with little cacti—each with a handwritten name tag. As if she’d lived in a one-woman theatre. No one came looking. No family. No neighbours. Only Oliver filed a notice with the council. The only one in the whole estate.
Three months passed. He began waking at night. Thoughts came in fragments, leaving him with the nagging sense he’d missed something. He smoked by the window, staring at the dark glass 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, delicate wrists, eyes eerily similar. She looked past him, into the flat. Into the past.
*”I’m her niece,”* she said. *”Margaret was my aunt. Sorting her things. Would you like to come in?”*
He stepped inside. Everything was different—curtains, scent, walls. But the air… it still carried traces of jam. And solitude. Her name was Eleanor. She’d come from Canterbury. Said they hadn’t spoken in years—a silly quarrel. Then she saw a notice by chance and realised she was too late. Almost nothing remained: a few boxes, photos, books. An old sticker album. She held it on her lap, fingers brushing the cover as if searching for forgiveness.
They talked. Oliver helped with the packing. Then—tea. She stayed a week. Then two. Rented a flat nearby. They began seeing each other. Quietly. Without fuss. He started writing again; she sold second-hand books. They went to the coast. Then Canterbury.
One day, he found a jar of jam. On the top shelf. Unlabelled. Just like the first. The jam was bitter again. He ate it silently. No bread, no sugar. Just spoon after spoon. It was for her. For Margaret. For her quiet kindness. For how one could vanish without becoming a blank space. How one could linger—in a jar of jam. In a scent. In a memory.
Some people come not to stay, but to remind you you’re still alive. And when you’ve forgotten how to be yourself, they knock. Not on the door. On the soul.
Sometimes he still climbed to her door. Just to stand there. Just to remember. Just to be. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes—with jam. And it was enough.
