**October 12th**
Helen sat at the old oak table in the parlour, her fingers tracing the worn silver casing of her late husband’s pocket watch. The glass was cracked, the hands frozen at half-past five—a time that meant nothing now, or perhaps too much. She turned it over in her hands as if willing it back to life.
*”What were you hiding, David?”* she whispered, staring at the face. *”You carried this even after it broke. Why?”*
David had been gone three months. A heart attack, sudden as a summer storm. She was thirty-two; he’d been thirty-five. They’d only just begun dreaming—children, holidays, a garden behind their cottage in Surrey. But time had stopped. Like this watch.
Helen sighed and set it down. Sorting his things was agony. Every jumper, every book brought him back. The watch was the last mystery. David had never explained where it came from. Only ever said, *”It’s important, love.”* That was all.
She stood, crossing to the window. Their cottage stood half-buried in autumn leaves. Neighbourhood children kicked a football down the lane; a dog barked in the distance. Life moved on, but for Helen, it had stalled.
*”Enough,”* she told herself. *”You have to keep going. For him.”*
—
Helen wasn’t one to give in easily. Before marriage, she’d worked as a florist in a little shop in Guildford, arranging bouquets that made strangers smile. David used to joke she *”tamed wildflowers.”* He’d been an engineer, quiet but warm-eyed. They’d met by chance—she’d dropped a pot of violets outside a café, and he’d knelt to gather the pieces.
*”Don’t fret,”* he’d said, grinning. *”The flower’s fine. You, on the other hand, look shattered.”*
*”That was my favourite pot!”* she’d huffed—then laughed. His calm was contagious.
A year later, they married. Bought the cottage. Adopted a tabby named Smudge. Talked of children. But fate had other plans. A year and a half ago, she’d lost the baby at five months. David had held her hand, silent, his quiet louder than words. They never spoke of that pain—just carried on. And now he was gone too.
The watch lay on the table, a puzzle unsolved. Helen snatched it up and marched out. There was an old clockmaker in town David had mentioned once. Perhaps he’d know its secret.
—
The shop was tucked down a narrow lane, its sign reading *”Time & Tides: Repairs.”* Behind the counter sat an elderly man with bushy eyebrows and a kind smile—Albert Simmons.
*”Afternoon,”* Helen said, setting the watch down. *”It’s stopped. Can you fix it?”*
Albert adjusted his spectacles, examining it closely. *”An antique, this. Swiss, early 1900s. Where’d you get it?”*
*”My husband’s. He… treasured it.”*
Albert nodded, as if he understood more than she’d said. He pried open the back—then frowned. *”There’s something here.”* He pulled out a folded slip of paper. *”A letter, by the looks.”*
Helen froze. *”A letter? What letter?”*
*”Dunno,”* Albert shrugged. *”Mechanism’s rusted, but repairable. Take a couple days. The letter, though—that’s yours.”*
He passed her the yellowed note. Her hands shook as she took it, but she couldn’t bring herself to unfold it.
*”Thank you,”* she murmured. *”I’ll fetch the watch later.”*
—
At home, Helen sat stiffly, the letter in her lap. Smudge curled at her feet, purring, but she barely noticed. Finally, she took a breath and unfolded it. David’s neat script slanted across the page:
*”To my little one, who I’ll never meet,*
*Forgive me for failing you. I promised your mum we’d be a family, but life had other plans. I always meant to plant a tree for you—an oak, like the one in Grandad’s garden. He said trees are lives that keep growing. If you’re reading this, I didn’t get the chance. But Mum will. She’s strong, my Helen. Look after her, won’t you?*
*Love, Dad.”*
Tears streaked her cheeks. She pressed the note to her chest, as if holding him through the words. He’d written this after their loss—but never shown her. Why? To spare her pain? Or to leave her hope?
*”Always had to do things your way,”* she whispered, smiling through tears. *”Fine. I’ll plant your oak.”*
—
The next morning, Helen drove to the nursery. She chose a young oak, its leaves still bright green. The shopkeeper—a grey-haired woman named Margaret—noticed her distant gaze.
*”Who’s the tree for?”* she asked, bundling the roots in burlap.
*”My son,”* Helen said softly. *”And my husband.”*
Margaret’s eyes warmed. *”Good lass. Trees remember. My late Tom planted an oak every spring till he couldn’t. Now I tend them.”*
*”He’s… gone?”*
*”Five years. But I see him in every leaf,”* Margaret smiled. *”Plant it, love. It’ll take root.”*
Helen nodded, something easing in her chest. Back home, she grabbed a spade and dug into the garden soil. Smudge watched from the porch, tail twitching. The earth was stubborn, but she kept at it, picturing David’s smile.
As she worked, a voice called over the fence: *”Need a hand, love?”*
It was Nora, the neighbour from across the lane—fifty-something, always turning up with scones or unsolicited advice.
*”Planting a tree,”* Helen said, wiping her brow.
*”On your own? Not on my watch!”* Nora bustled through the gate. *”An oak, eh? Who for?”*
Helen hesitated, then told her about the letter. Nora listened, shaking her head.
*”Men. Silent as stones till they’re not. My Frank was the same. Once left me pearl earrings in his sock drawer—no warning, just *‘found these.’*”*
*”Didn’t you mind? Him never saying?”*
*”Course I did!”* Nora laughed. *”Then I reckoned: silence is their language. Love without words. Here—steady the roots. Water it proper.”*
Together, they patted the soil down. The oak stood straight, as if it belonged.
*”Lovely,”* Nora said. *”Tend it well. It’s your babe now.”*
Helen smiled. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel so alone.
—
Two days later, she returned to Albert’s shop. He beckoned her in, grinning.
*”Watch runs now,”* he said, handing it over. *”Just needed cleaning. But this—”* He held out another slip. *”Found it inside. Your husband liked hiding notes, didn’t he?”*
Helen unfolded it. Just a few lines:
*”Helen, if you’re reading this, I never said it enough. You’re my time. Without you, I’d have stopped long ago. Live, my love. And see my mate James—he knows what to do.”*
*”James?”* Helen frowned. *”Which James?”*
*”Might be I know,”* Albert said. *”James Whitby. Engineer, like your David. Works at the factory near Brighton. David spoke of him often.”*
Helen thanked him and left, clutching the watch. She remembered James—David’s childhood friend from uni. They’d drifted after the wedding. Why mention him now?
—
The next day, she found the factory. James—a tall bloke with David’s same kind eyes—recognized her at once.
*”Helen? David talked about you nonstop. Sorry I missed the funeral—was overseas.”*
*”It’s alright,”* she said, showing him the note.
James read it and nodded. *”Typical David. Always scheming in silence. Come on—I’ll show you.”*
He led her to a small office. On the desk lay a folder of blueprints.
*”David’s project,”* James explained. *”A playground for the village kids. Like the one he never had. You know he grew up in care?”*
She nodded, though David rarely spoke of it.
*”He’d been saving for it,”* James said. *”Asked me to finish if he couldn’t. Got the lads ready to start. But we need you. You’re the florist—he wanted flowers round it. Yours.”*
HelenHelen placed a single daffodil by the oak’s roots, knowing David’s love would always grow with it.
