A bitter autumn rain lashes against the muddy road leading to the village of Ashford. Edward Thompson, hunched beneath the downpour, trudges forward without pause. Mud clings to his boots, each step a struggle, but he refuses to stop. Today, he must be there, by Margaret’s side. At last, the outline of the old churchyard emerges through the grey veil of rain.
“There’s her oak,” Edward murmurs, his voice trembling with grief.
He reaches the simple headstone and sinks to his knees, oblivious to the icy chill of his soaked clothes. Rain mingles with tears as they trail down his weathered face. How long he stays there, lost in memory, he doesn’t know—until footsteps sound behind him. Edward turns, his heart seizing in surprise.
That morning had been damp and dreary. Edward, wrapped in an old trench coat, stood at the bus stop in Winchester, growing impatient as the bus ran late. Nearby, a young woman chatted cheerfully on her phone, oblivious to his scowling glare.
“Must you be so loud?” he snaps before he can stop himself.
She blinks, lowering the phone. “Sorry, Mum—I’ll call back later, alright?”
An awkward silence settles. Edward shifts, guilt pricking at his own sharpness. He clears his throat. “Apologies. I’m not myself today.”
The girl offers a kind smile. “It’s alright. This weather puts everyone on edge. But I love autumn rain—it smells like the earth breathing.”
Edward merely nods. Words have never come easily to him. Margaret had been the one who filled silences, who handled everything—bills, conversations, the little things he took for granted. Without her, the world feels barren, like a field after harvest.
Undeterred, the girl continues, “Delays aren’t all bad. Latecomers still catch the bus. My friend, for instance, hasn’t even arrived yet.”
Edward almost scoffs—cold comfort for those left waiting—but then he remembers. If he hadn’t caught that bus forty years ago, he’d never have met Margaret. Would she have been happier without him?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was summer itself; her kindness warmed everyone.
“I never even noticed when she struggled,” Edward thinks, his eyes stinging.
To distract himself, he replies, “Heading to Ashford? Quiet place. Not many young folk there.”
She nods. “Visiting my gran—Aunt Eliza. And you?”
“My wife,” he says quietly. “Her family’s from there.”
“What’s her name? Maybe Gran knew her.”
“Thompson. Margaret Elizabeth.”
The girl frowns but shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” Edward explains. “Only visited her parents now and then. Stopped going much after they passed.”
He falls silent, lost in thought. Margaret had loved Ashford—always wished they’d visit more as a family. But Edward never made time. Now time is all he has, and no family left. Their son, James, has his own life now; the grandchildren seldom visit.
“There’s my friend!” the girl exclaims, waving. “Over here, Lucy!”
She turns back to Edward, grinning. “Now the bus will come. Always works like that.”
And sure enough, the bus rounds the corner. The journey to Ashford takes nearly two hours. Edward remembers how, once, Margaret missed the bus in their youth, and they wandered the city streets until midnight—back when everything felt full of promise.
Then came the ordinary days. They hardly ever argued—it was impossible to stay cross with her. Her patience was endless. But Edward had changed, grown complacent, taking her love for granted without cherishing the moments they shared.
If he could tell his younger self one thing, it would be: *Treasure her.*
As the bus rolls into Ashford, Edward’s pulse quickens. Words from an old book echo in his mind: *Hell is never again.*
Rain drums relentlessly against the roof. Edward rises stiffly. “This is my stop.”
He steps into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend linger under the shelter, but when they see where he’s headed, she calls out, “Where are you going? There’s nothing that way but the churchyard!”
Edward pauses, turns. His eyes say everything. The girl’s face falls in understanding.
The day Margaret left him forever had been marked by a petty quarrel. Edward, as usual, withdrew—refused supper, refused words. Margaret, ever the peacemaker, tried to bridge the silence.
“I’m popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d muttered.
She left—and he never saw her again. A car struck her at the crossing. In an instant, his world collapsed, leaving only guilt and emptiness.
Now he walks the sodden path, numb to the cold. Rain pelts his face, but he presses on until he reaches Margaret’s grave and kneels.
“There’s your oak, love,” he whispers, breath ragged with sorrow.
Tears blend with the rain. Time slips away—until footsteps sound again. Edward turns. The girl from the bus stop stands there, drenched but smiling softly, an umbrella in hand.
“Sorry to intrude,” she says gently. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching your death. Come with us—wait out the rain.”
Edward leans on her arm as he rises. She adds, hesitant, “I’m sure she loved you. I’m sure she was happy. And she’d forgive you.”
“Is it that obvious?” he rasps.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replies. “Everyone who’s lost someone knows it. But don’t make her sadder by neglecting yourself. Come on—you’re soaked through.”
There’s something of Margaret in her voice—the same tenderness. Slowly, Edward takes a step forward, toward the warmth still holding him in this world.
