He lived alone.
His house stood apart, just beyond the village—past the hill where a street with the odd name Appendix once ran. Seven houses, arranged in a half-circle on the rise, like drowsy sentinels.
When the village migration began—people flocking to cities, abandoning the land, forgetting their roots—the street emptied. The houses were torn down, dismantled for firewood, left to rot… Only one remained.
One. Like a stubborn tooth left in the mouth of a century-old woman.
And there, for the past seven years, lived William Thompson.
Though… if we’re being precise, he wasn’t entirely alone. By his side was Patch. A dog, black with white spots, short legs, a tail curled like a ring, triangular ears, and eyes like burning coals. He understood everything but never spoke. A true companion. A true man—just in a dog’s coat.
In the city, William had a family. A wife—distant, cold. They barely exchanged words in a month. A grown daughter who once clung to him, refusing to take a step without him, now vanished from his life as if snapped away. A grandson had been born, but he’d learned of it not from his daughter’s lips, but from a passing neighbour.
When his heart trouble struck—seriously—the doctor just waved his hand:
“You need peace, nature. Have you got such a place? I could recommend a sanatorium.”
William thought of his parents’ home. The answer was simple.
“I have such a place. It holds everything that’s mine.”
He told his wife—formally. She just tapped her temple, as if to say he’d gone mad.
He didn’t argue. He left alone.
He cut the weeds. Rebuilt the roof. Made a new porch. Set up the hearth—calling on an old friend, the one he’d battled nettles with as a boy, like bandits. The house came alive. The house breathed.
He could almost hear his mother’s tongue click in the corner of the room, his father’s gruff, approving grunt.
He whitewashed the hearth, painted the porch cherry red. Carved railings. Beauty.
He survived the winter. Thawed his soul. No wife, no daughter—no call, no letter. Then in spring, someone left Patch by his gate. Since then—it was the two of them.
Summer brought space. Mornings—the woods. William with a basket, Patch at his side. Speaking without words, mind to mind. William greeted the forest as his nan had taught him—a bow, a whispered request for permission. Words weren’t wasted, she’d say, or the wind would steal them, and regret would never catch up.
William was quiet. Maybe that was why things had gone wrong with his family—too silent, too honest.
And so it might have gone on. But one day, others came to the village.
They arrived. In expensive cars, with papers, with plans. His plot—the prettiest. The one with the view.
His house was in the way. The last house.
“William, be reasonable. We’ll give you a flat, compensation. In the city, all modern-like.” The man smiled, voice slick, clapping his shoulder.
William shrugged him off. Stared hard.
“This is my family’s home. I was born here. I’ll die here. This—is my place.”
The smile dropped. “Well… if that’s how it is—court it is, then.”
Court. Papers. Verdict. The house—to be demolished.
William said nothing. But his eyes… changed. Not angry. Not broken. As if from another time. When grass grew waist-high, stew bubbled in a cast-iron pot, and his father split logs…
One morning, a tractor rumbled outside. A local lad at the wheel. Young.
William stepped out. No fury. No words. Sat on the bench. Patch wasn’t in sight.
“Mr. Will, I’m sorry… orders…” The boy trembled.
William looked at him.
“Do your job, son. Just know—Patch is under the porch. The one who dragged you from the icy pond, remember? Five years back. Get him out first. Then me. I’ll be inside.”
The boy paled by the second. Then cut the engine and left.
Two days later, people began gathering at the house. Locals. Some with buckets, some with spades. The tractor boy too. They rang the telly. Made noise. Saved the house.
The plans were redrawn. The road went round.
Now, William lives quietly. A beehive. Honey. Patch at his heels.
And then—she appeared.
At the gate. A suitcase in one hand, the other clutching a five-year-old boy’s palm. A car behind her—ancient, as tired as the road itself.
“Hello, Dad…” Emily. His daughter. “We’ve come. Will you have us?”
Silently, he opened the gate.
The boy—Jack—clung to his mum. Never seen his granddad. William crouched, lifted him up.
“Let’s pick an apple. There—give it a twist. Gently.”
Then—the kitchen. The house smelt of herbs, dried mushrooms, beeswax.
“Dad… I’m sorry. I was angry. Hurt. Thought you left us. Then… I became a mum. Understood everything. I left my husband. Nowhere else to go. Just for winter, if you’ll have us.”
He hugged her. Like when she was small.
“It’ll sort itself. Settle in.”
Winter passed. Come spring, Emily hesitated.
“Dad, they’ve offered me a job… deputy head at the school. Can you believe it?”
“Will you take it?”
“Will you get me my own hive? I teach biology.”
He only smiled. That evening—a new hive stood under the tree.
“Granddad!” Jack beamed. “What about me?”
“All yours.”
Summer—the woods. Patch, Jack. Emily at home—whitewashing.
They return—the house gleams. Windows polished, shutters freshly painted, flowers blooming on them. Emily?
“When did she manage it?”
At the gate, Patch wags around someone—
“Granddad! It’s Gran!”
William froze.
“Hello, Will…”
“Hello, Liz…”
“I’ve come… May I?”
Emily smiled shyly.
“Mum arrived on her own. We’d tidied up, and she… painted the shutters.”
“Gran, did you draw these?”
“I did…” she smiled.
That evening, they drank tea under the linden tree. Quietly.
“It’s lovely here…” Liz said. “I’d like to stay. For good. Out there—it’s chaos. Here… peace. I’m tired.”
“Stay, Liz…”
“Really?”
He didn’t answer. But his eyes shone.
I’m Jack. William’s grandson.
We live here, on our family’s land.
We’ve rebuilt the house. Mum married again—Uncle Pete, a local. They had Nina. She lives nearby. We all do.
Gran and Granddad are long gone. But the memory remains.
And while memory lives, so does the family. That’s what my granddad said. That’s what I believe.
This—is our place. And our heart.
