**Under the Rain of Solitude**
Timothy’s wife, Gemma, had started behaving strangely. One day, she erupted into a meaningless argument, accusing him of every fault imaginable—leaving dishes unwashed, socks strewn about, or forgetting tasks she’d nagged him about. She claimed she was tired of cleaning up after him. Worst of all, he couldn’t afford the new car she wanted. Timothy began to suspect the issue wasn’t him. The sudden gym memberships, the wardrobe overhaul—none of it was for him. And then Gemma left for another man.
A year passed. One morning, Timothy woke to the doorbell. Throwing on his dressing gown, he shuffled to the hallway, opened the door, and froze in disbelief.
A heavy grey cloud crept across the sky, as if an unseen hand were painting over it with grim strokes. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as Timothy drove through the streets of an old market town by the Thames. The rain grew heavier, the wind howled louder. Inside the car, the heater hummed, the radio played softly, but beyond the glass lay a cold, desolate melancholy that seeped into his bones.
The streets were empty, the occasional car speeding past until even those vanished. How many laps had he driven? Home felt stifling; his feet had carried him to the car on their own. Timothy liked to think while driving, piecing together his life like a jigsaw missing its crucial pieces. He turned onto a narrow lane, drifting further from the town centre, from the house that echoed with memories.
A week ago, Gemma had returned. Her reappearance had ripped open old wounds. She’d thought her tears would melt his heart, that he’d forget her betrayal, her cruel words. When she left, she’d called him a failure, a worthless man. Could anyone forgive that?
A year earlier, Gemma had picked a fight over nothing. She’d screamed that she was tired of his mess, his forgetfulness, his inability to give her the life she wanted. “Four years without a holiday abroad! I haven’t seen the sea in two years!” she’d spat. “I’m leaving for someone who can give me those things.” Timothy had suspected her sudden gym visits and new clothes weren’t for him. At home, she wore an old dressing gown, bare-faced; outside, she glittered. He hadn’t stopped her. The pain had been brutal, but he’d survived. A few nights out with friends, then back to reality. In time, it had dulled.
At work, the women had perked up when they learned he was single. They didn’t care about fancy gifts or luxury trips—they just wanted companionship. And Timothy was a catch: in his prime, with a house, a car, no alimony. But none stirred his heart. He wasn’t opposed to love, just indifferent. Even his friends had drifted—their wives wary of a free-spirited man tempting their husbands astray. He visited, but always returned to an empty flat where no one waited.
They’d never had children. Timothy hadn’t worried—not everyone did right away. Gemma had even been tested; the doctors said all was fine, it would happen. But during the divorce, she’d sneered, “You’re useless! Couldn’t even pick a wife who could give you a child!” The words had cut like a knife. Still, if she’d stayed, he might have forgiven her. But she’d left.
Then came the knock at the door. Timothy opened it to find Gemma, tearful, begging for forgiveness. “I was wrong. I love you,” she pleaded. He told her he forgave her but could never forget. How could he take back someone who’d left for another, only to return when discarded? “Would you have taken me back if I’d left?” he asked. Silence. As she left, he told her to pack her things and disappear. “I’ve nowhere to go,” she whispered. “What about your mum’s in the countryside?” he shot back.
That night, like tonight, he’d driven until exhaustion. He’d decided: if she was home, he’d try again. He’d grown used to her, after all. But the flat was empty. Timothy wasn’t upset. He realised—it wouldn’t have worked. She’d returned out of desperation, and when someone better came along, she’d have left again. How could trust survive that?
The rain worsened, the wipers struggling against the deluge. Timothy drove on, lost in silent debate. One more lap. A stop at the petrol station, then home. At a traffic light, his gaze caught a woman beneath a tree. Spring leaves offered no shelter; she stood drenched, staring blankly. The light turned green, but she didn’t move. Waiting? Or, like him once, with nowhere to go?
He drove on, then reversed. Lowering the window, he honked. She didn’t flinch. “Need a lift?” he called. She turned slowly. Rain or tears on her face? “I can’t wait here,” he urged. Slowly, she approached and slid in. Her lips trembled but couldn’t form a smile. “The seats will get wet,” he thought, switching on the heated seats.
She smoothed her soaked hair, tugging her dress over her knees. The fabric clung. “There are tissues in the glovebox,” he said, pulling away. She wiped her face. Silence. “Where to?” he finally asked. “Nowhere,” she murmured, her voice soft but hollow. “Great,” he thought. “The station,” she added. “Right. Running from your husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your bag?” Her startled glance answered him. “Husband left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after. Friends vanished when I asked for help. Now they call but fear I’ll ask again. Not that I need it now.”
Timothy hesitated. “Your daughter…?” he ventured. “No. I sold my flat for treatment in Switzerland. It didn’t save her.” Her eyes were dry, her grief infinite. “How old?” “Thirteen tomorrow. I bought us tickets to the coast—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to fight.” “Tickets with you?” “Yes, for tomorrow.” Timothy said nothing. What could he say? He had everything—home, job, health. She’d lost her child, her home, everyone. How did she keep breathing?
“No kids for me,” he said. “Wife was pregnant young—someone else’s. Had an abortion. Told me during the divorce to hurt me. Called me a failure, left for money.” “Fancy coffee?” he asked, spotting a petrol station. “I’m starving, and you need warming up.” She shrugged.
In the café, two coffees and pastries between them, a man nearby stared. Timothy shifted, blocking his view. “Where’s the loo?” she asked. He pointed. When she returned, her hair was combed, dried to a dark fluff. Early thirties, slender, delicate features. The rain had aged her. “Emily loved crisps,” she said suddenly. “When she stopped eating them, I knew.” “How do you bear it?” he blurted. “There’s nothing left in here,” she pressed a hand to her chest.
They drove on. She smelled of rain and faint florals. Gemma had drowned in sickly perfume that made his head spin. This woman was silent, almost vanishing. “The vicar said souls linger forty days,” she murmured. “I feel her. Sometimes she calls in my dreams. Will she come with me? She loved the sea.” Timothy pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. “What will you do there? No belongings.” “I’ll manage. It doesn’t matter.” “But the pain follows. Need money? I can help.” “No, thank you,” she said, finally meeting his eyes.
The station loomed. “I’m Timothy. You?” “Katherine. My mum called me Kate.” He parked. “Can’t stay long. Sure about this?” he asked. “There’s a rest area inside—like a hotel. Sleep proper. Here.” He offered notes. “I’ve got some,” she refused. “You’ll need more there. Take it. Pay me back. Gives me a reason to wait.” He pressed them into her hand. “Thanks,” Kate said, vanishing into the station.
The rain stopped, clouds parting. Timothy leaned back, eyes closed. Kate’s face flickered in his mind—drenched under the tree, hiding in the car, that first fragile smile in the café. Hours, but it felt like years. He startled awake. Kate stood before the car, then slid in. “Changed your mind?” he asked. “You didn’t leave your number. How could I return the money?” Her smile warmed him, his heart skipping. “You’re right. Can’t outrun grief. The sea without her isn’t the same.” He started the engine. Kate slept, head against the window. He pulled over at a service station.
Cars rushed past, carrying people home with memories and gifts. In his car, two slept—a man and a woman with nowhere to hurry. Two solitudes, one shared hope.They drove on through the night, not knowing where they were headed, only that they were no longer alone.
