By the Well…
Edith Hawthorne heaved the wooden yoke onto her shoulders, its iron buckets clinking softly in the crisp morning air. Each step along the narrow village path echoed faintly, a stubborn rhythm against the quiet. The well water—clear, icy, pure—was sacred to her. Though she was past seventy, she trekked to the end of the lane every day, no matter what. When her daughter-in-law scolded her, Edith barely listened.
“Mother, must you? There’s water right at the house! People talk. Isn’t it too much for you?” fussed Margaret, rolling her eyes.
But Edith pretended not to hear. The tap water smelled like rust to her, unfit even for tea. Not like the well—sweet, alive, like memory itself.
She paused, set the buckets down, and straightened, closing her eyes just for a moment. A breeze stirred the leaves of a young linden—someone had planted it there not long ago. Once, an old walnut tree had stood by the well, broad and towering, where she’d met William in her youth.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart had raced as she ran to him! And there he was—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the well, waiting. All the village girls had envied her. Especially Charlotte, her closest friend.
“Try anything with him, Lotte, and I’ll never forgive you,” Edith had warned.
Charlotte had only smirked, eyes downcast. “Oh, but he’s mine to take. A fortune-teller said so… Only joking!” she added quickly.
Edith had scoffed, but unease coiled in her chest. Then, as if fate mocked her—the fever came. Burning, weakening, until she lay useless, begging Charlotte: “Go to the well. Tell Will I’m ill, that I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Charlotte had smiled—oddly—then vanished, her heels clicking away. What she’d told William, Edith never knew. But when she returned the next day, she found them together.
They stood side by side. She turned, icy breath in her lungs, and fled. Tears choked her; her heart tore free.
A week later, Thomas, the quiet neighbour who’d always adored her, proposed.
“Send the matchmakers, Tom,” she’d said, steel in her voice, her pain buried deep. “Before I change my mind.”
Charlotte came later, weeping. “Nothing happened between us, Edie, I swear—”
“You got what you wanted. And you’ll never be happy. Neither will I. Now go. And don’t come back.”
The wedding was a funeral for her dreams. Her parents fretted, but Thomas—Thomas spent his life ensuring she’d never regret it. He cooked, he washed, he woke for the children. The village knew him as kind, steady. But love? No. She lived with respect, not fire.
Charlotte married William. And he fled—first to Manchester, then Newcastle, always some excuse. A house to build, work elsewhere. Truth was, he ran from her.
Then word came from Manchester: crushed by a felled tree. Dead.
The village buried him together. Edith stayed away—her grief wasn’t for show. But at dusk, she went alone to the fresh grave. Stood, prayed without words. Wept silently, as if she’d held her breath for years.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Charlotte, dressed in black. Their eyes met. Nothing was said. They parted in silence.
Years passed. Charlotte died. Now Edith visited the churchyard often—tending Thomas’ grave, her parents’, and… those two. Cleaning the headstones, plucking weeds.
One evening, she met Charlotte again—pale as twilight.
“You still come to him, Edie? Even now?”
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Take comfort in that, at least.”
And then, like dawn breaking, Edith understood: she hadn’t loved William, but the dream of him. The life she’d imagined. And all the while, a real man—faithful, gentle Thomas—had stood beside her. A husband, a friend. And she? She’d clung to memory like an old hope chest, sniffing for ghosts.
No more anger at Charlotte. None of it mattered now.
…Edith lifted her buckets. The marigolds’ scent hung thick—time to cut a few for the graves. Charlotte had loved them. That sharp, bittersweet fragrance, like an unkept promise.
From the path, she called: “Tom! There’s something I must tell you!”
“What is it?” he answered, alarmed.
She pressed her face to his chest and whispered, “I love you, Tom.”
And blushed like a girl. He held her tighter, wordless. His eyes held everything—shock, tenderness… and the love he’d carried all their years.
Edith no longer passed those two graves without pause. She stopped. Wiped the stone. Murmured prayers. As if hoping, beyond all, that peace had come to them at last. True peace. Endless.
