**Friday, July 12th**
I woke at dawn, the sun just brushing the treetops. My mum, Margaret, had been firm the night before:
*”Be up early, son. The hay won’t cut itself. Winter’s coming, and the cows need feeding.”*
*”I’ll manage, Mum. No need to drag John into it—he’s got his own fields to tend,”* I replied before turning in, never imagining how a single bee sting would change everything.
People in the village always thought me… different. Not odd, exactly, but not like the rest. Quiet, bookish, polite. Never one for idle chatter, always with a novel in my pocket. I worked as a mechanic in the local garage—skilled, trusted. But my heart? Empty. Waiting, though I didn’t know for what.
The women had given up: *”You’ll never get through to him!”* The lads called me *”the professor.”* And my brother John, ever the joker, would laugh:
*”You’ll die alone, mate! Even old Mabel’s trying to set you up—and she’s pushing eighty!”*
*”Go bother your Sarah,”* I’d mutter, brushing him off.
But inside? It ached. Lonely. Scared. Meet someone? God, no…
That sweltering July day, I’d nearly finished the far corner of the field when I heard her—a sharp gasp.
*”Oh—blimey! That really stings…”*
I turned. A woman—young, pretty, in jeans and a graphic tee—clutched her arm, wincing. Before I could think, I was beside her.
*”What happened?”*
*”A bee,”* she hissed. *”What do I—?”*
*”Easy. Let’s get the stinger out.”* I plucked it free before she could flinch.
She blinked. *”You’ve already…? Really?”*
*”Done.”* I nodded. *”Name’s William. You?”*
*”Katie.”* A small smile. *”Thank you. D’you live here?”*
*”Yeah. Just cutting hay. You?”*
*”Visiting my aunt, Lucy—she runs the clinic. I’ve just moved… teacher at the primary school. Wanted a fresh start.”*
I nodded, mute. She left, never seeing how my chest had clenched.
Katie had her own scars. Fled Manchester after walking in on her bloke and her best mate. Came here to heal. Found me instead.
I walked home lighter that evening. Silent over supper. Then, unprompted, I picked up my guitar and played. John and Mum exchanged glances.
*”Alright, Shakespeare,”* John grinned. *”Meet a mermaid in the fields? Spill.”*
So I did. The bee. Her hands. Her voice. How I ached to see her again. John slapped the table.
*”Right—tomorrow we’re off to see Tom, Lucy’s husband. Works with me. Katie, eh? Nice name.”*
*”Not happening,”* I mumbled.
*”Oh, it is. This is your shot. Don’t blow it.”*
Lucy welcomed us warmly; Katie, with a shy smile. I couldn’t meet her eyes. John did all the talking. But when the chatter lulled, Katie turned to me:
*”It’s lovely out… Fancy a walk to the river?”*
My heart hammered. We walked slow, the dusty lane smelling of cut grass and something like hope.
We talked—of loneliness, of books, of betrayal. Of wanting someone to trust.
By dawn, we stood by the water, fingers tangled, neither willing to let go.
*”I don’t know how I lived before you,”* I admitted.
*”Me neither,”* she whispered. *”Never thought I’d find you… here.”*
Two months later, the village buzzed with wedding bells. I wasn’t that quiet, grey shadow anymore. I was hers.
*”Look at them,”* Lucy sighed as we danced. *”Two halves, finding each other in a hayfield. All because of a bee.”*
John just laughed. *”Aye. One cut of the scythe—and that’s that.”*
