He came home just before dawn. The taste of the past still lingered on his lips.
Edward appeared on the doorstep as the first light crept over the horizon. He’d been gone all night. In the hallway, Emily waited—pale, barefoot, her nightgown rumpled, eyes red from crying.
“Why didn’t you call?” Her voice trembled like a strained violin string.
“I couldn’t… I’m sorry,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. He moved to the kitchen, mechanically filling the kettle, spooning in ground coffee, adding water.
He didn’t know where to begin. What could he say? How could he explain that a single night had reshaped him from within? Would Emily even understand? Would she believe him?
She sat across from him, silent, without accusation. Just waiting.
Edward reached into his pocket and unfolded a carefully creased slip of paper. One glance from his wife was enough—she knew. A single name. “Lucy.” And everything clicked into place.
Three years ago. It started on an ordinary Friday.
The workweek had ended, and Edward, head of the engineering department at a London construction firm, shut his office door with relief. The air was warm, carrying the scent of spring and promise. He’d looked forward to a quiet dinner, the laughter of his children, plans for the countryside with Emily, his wife. Everything was as it should be. Until one accidental glance changed it all.
He saw her.
Fifteen years without contact—and yet he knew her instantly. Lucy. His first love. The one who’d once made his chest burn, his voice falter, his palms go numb.
Memories flooded back—Year Nine, her golden curls, the shy smiles, stolen glances. The first confession. Three years of friendship, a kiss at prom, whispered promises… Then, the cold goodbye: “I’m getting married. Our childhood is over.”
He’d suffered, but life moved on. There was Emily—steady, reliable. With her, he’d built a family, raised children, settled into routine.
But that encounter… They stood face to face on the high street. Lucy chattered about an academic conference, about revisiting their hometown. He nodded, hearing not her words, but the pounding of his own heart.
In the café, past and present blurred. Lucy—successful, radiant, married. No children yet, but her life stretched ahead. She laughed, brushed his hand—and in those moments, he forgot who he was, where he belonged, who expected his call.
Then came the hotel room. Champagne. Bittersweet nostalgia. That night, he was that lovestruck boy again. He kissed her hair, whispered words he’d never said in youth. Lucy murmured, “I never forgot you.”
But dawn arrived like a verdict. At the station, she wept; he stood silent. On the train, she pressed a crumpled note into his hand—her number. Then she vanished.
Edward returned home at sunrise. Guilty, disoriented. His children emerged from their rooms—wide-eyed, uneasy. He couldn’t find the words. Only a whisper:
“I’m sorry…”
The kitchen was quiet. Emily sat opposite him, silent, as if sorting through her thoughts. He pulled out the paper. She saw the name. Her voice cracked:
“So, Edward? Do you want to go back? Back to being a boy?”
He remembered once sharing his schoolboy romance with her, lying in the grass beneath the summer sky. She’d laughed then—but she’d remembered.
He moved to the window, staring at the city. Then he tore the note and dropped it into the bin. Crossing back, he pulled her close. “Forgive me. Never again. I swear.”
She didn’t push him away—but she didn’t lean in.
“It’s over, Edward. Childhood’s done. Sort out your feelings. I’ll handle mine.”
A month passed. They lived side by side, not together. He slept on the sofa. The house was thick with silence. The children whispered as if in mourning—and in a way, they were. Not death, but trust, had been buried.
Then one morning, Emily set a cup of tea by his hand. No words. No explanations. But something shifted.
Slowly, she helped him bear the shame. Pulled him from the past into the present. Back to his family.
He never saw Lucy again. Didn’t want to. The memories came sometimes, tinged with quiet sadness, but no pain. It was over. All that remained was a faint aftertaste—bitter, like black coffee drunk alone at dawn.
Lesson learned: Nostalgia is a dangerous thing. It makes fools of wise men and boys of grown ones. The past should stay where it belongs—gone.
