The Last Walk in the Rain
A cold autumn downpour lashed against the muddy road leading to the village of Willowbrook. Henry Whitmore, hunched beneath the relentless streams, trudged forward without pause. The muck clung to his boots, each step a battle, but he wouldn’t stop. Today, he had to be there—for his Margaret. At last, through the grey veil of rain, the outlines of the old churchyard emerged.
“There’s her birch tree,” Henry whispered, his voice cracking with grief.
He approached the modest headstone and sank to his knees, oblivious to the icy bite of soaked clothes. Rain mingled with tears, tracing the wrinkles of his face. How long he knelt there, lost in memories, he couldn’t say. But then—footsteps. He turned, and his heart tightened in surprise.
That morning had been bleak and heavy. Henry, wrapped in a threadbare coat, stood waiting for the delayed bus in the town square. Its tardiness gnawed at him. Nearby, a young woman laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his scowling.
“Must you be so loud?” he snapped, irritation boiling over.
She blinked, flustered. “Sorry,” she murmured, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An awkward silence settled. Henry shifted, his own rudeness leaving a sour taste. He cleared his throat.
“Apologies. I’m not myself today.”
The girl offered a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. This weather gets to everyone. But I love autumn rain—it smells like the season itself breathing.”
Henry said nothing, only nodded. Small talk had never been his forte. Margaret had handled that—bills, relatives, everything. He’d taken it for granted, never questioning it while she was there. Without her, his world had withered, barren as a scorched field.
Undeterred, the girl continued, “Funny, the bus being late is a mercy for stragglers. My friend hasn’t even arrived yet.”
Henry almost scoffed—what comfort was that to those freezing in the rain? But then he remembered Margaret. Forty years ago, if he’d missed that bus, their paths might never have crossed. Would she have been happier?
Margaret always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was sunlight itself, her kindness a warmth anyone could bask in.
“I never even knew when she was struggling,” Henry thought, his eyes burning.
To distract himself, he forced a reply: “You heading to Willowbrook? Quiet place, not much for young folk.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “My aunt Rose lives there. Visiting her. And you?”
“To my wife,” he said softly. “Her home.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Whitmore. Margaret Anne.”
The girl frowned but shook her head. “No, sorry.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” Henry explained. “Only came back to visit her parents. After they passed, she hardly returned.”
He fell silent, lost in the past. Margaret had adored Willowbrook, dreamed of family trips. But Henry never had the time. Now time was all he had—but family was gone. Their son, James, had his own life now, rarely visiting with the grandchildren.
“There she is!” the girl suddenly exclaimed, waving. “Over here, Emily!”
Turning back to Henry, she grinned. “Now the bus’ll come.”
And it did, rounding the corner with a groan. The ride to Willowbrook took nearly two hours. Henry remembered once, years ago, when Margaret had missed the bus—they’d wandered the city streets till midnight, days full of hope and warmth.
Then came routine. They rarely argued—arguing with Margaret was impossible. Her patience was boundless. But Henry had changed, grown complacent, taking her love for granted, blind to the moments they shared.
If he could whisper one word to his younger self, it’d be: *Cherish.*
As the bus rolled into the village, Henry’s pulse quickened. A line from an old book echoed in his mind: *Hell is ‘never again.’*
The rain in Willowbrook hadn’t let up, drumming against the bus roof. Henry heaved himself up.
“This is me.”
He stepped into the deluge without looking back. The girl and her friend followed, sheltering under the eaves. Spotting his path, she called out:
“Where are you going? There’s only the churchyard that way!”
Henry paused, turning just enough. His eyes said it all. The girl’s face fell with understanding.
The day Margaret left him forever had been marked in black. They’d quarreled over nothing. Henry, as ever, had clammed up, refused supper, shut her out. Margaret, ever the peacemaker, had tried to bridge the gap, but he’d been ice.
“I’m popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“No,” he’d muttered.
She’d left—and he never saw her again. A car at the crossing took her in an instant. His life had collapsed into hollowness and guilt.
Now he slogged through the mud, numb to the cold. Rain stung his cheeks, but he pressed on. At Margaret’s grave, he fell to his knees.
“Here’s your birch tree, my love,” he choked out.
Tears and rain blurred together. Time dissolved. Then—footsteps. Henry turned. The girl from the bus stood there, drenched but smiling softly. She held an umbrella.
“Sorry to intrude,” she said gently. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching cold. Come with us—wait out the rain.”
Henry, leaning on her arm, rose slowly. She added, hesitant:
“I know she loved you. She’d have forgiven you.”
“Is it that obvious?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with loss,” she replied. “Everyone who’s loved knows that. But don’t make her sadder. Come on—you’re soaked.”
Something in her voice—Margaret’s kindness, her warmth—made Henry’s breath hitch. Step by unsteady step, he let her lead him back toward the light, toward the fragile warmth still holding him to the world.
