Alone, But Not Lonely
Not exactly young, but with a sparkle in her eye, Margaret Wilkins washed her teacup after breakfast, brewed a leisurely coffee, and glanced out the window.
“Year after year, the same old routine,” she thought. “The clock, the windowpane, the open book on the sill—and the solitude. How I miss my husband, who left me alone so soon.”
Ten years had passed since she buried her beloved husband. The pain had dulled, but the loneliness never quite faded. At first, she could almost feel his presence beside her, but eventually, even that faded. She once remarked to herself, “They don’t leave the house—they just quietly slip out of your soul, given enough time.”
Lately, the loneliness had started to weigh on her. She’d even toyed with the idea of finding another lonely soul. Margaret observed the men around her—calmly, unhurriedly—letting her gaze linger just a little longer than necessary.
“Who knows? Maybe there’s someone out there with the same story,” she mused, already picturing herself sitting beside a kindred spirit, a gentle melody playing in her weary heart.
Luckily, Margaret had already taken notice of the retired colonel in the neighbouring building. Her friend Alice lived on his floor, and her husband, Harold, often fished with him.
Alice had filled her in weeks ago. “Colonel Edward is a widower, you know. He’s got a daughter, but she lives miles away. Visits rarely. A serious sort, but Harold gets on with him famously. They’re always joking—you should see them. Really, Margaret, why walk hand-in-hand with loneliness when you could have company?”
Margaret sighed. “Oh, Alice, how on earth would I approach him first? And anyway, shouldn’t the man make the move?”
She was old-fashioned that way—a former English literature teacher, elegant, well-read. The kind of woman who could hold a conversation over tea for hours.
Colonel Edward Whitmore was exactly as described—lean, tall, silver-haired, and bespectacled. He walked with military precision, as if his knees had forgotten how to bend. Yet there was something intriguing about him. Margaret always watched discreetly as he passed, nodding when he offered his usual, “Good day.”
Sometimes she’d give him a meaningful look, but he never seemed to notice. The ladies on the bench outside had plenty to say about him, of course.
“That colonel? Oh, I heard he took a bad knock to the head in the service—completely numb to emotion now,” clucked Mrs. Higgins.
“Nonsense,” argued old Gladys. “My son says it’s from staring through binoculars for years. That’s why he wears those glasses.”
“I heard it’s something else altogether,” chimed in Barbara, recently retired and perpetually on the hunt. “If you catch my meaning.”
The colonel was prime gossip material—a solitary man in a sea of unattached women. Margaret wondered about him too.
“Strange man, keeping to himself. What does he do alone all day? Read? Watch war films? I do like a good war film… Maybe we’ve got that in common. And poetry—oh, I do love those melancholy verses. ‘The night draws in, the rain falls soft and light. I wait for no one. You won’t come tonight…’ Funny how loneliness writes the loveliest lines.”
Just then, the phone rang, startling her. Alice’s voice boomed through the receiver. “Margaret! What are you up to? Wait, let me guess—book in hand?”
“Spot on,” Margaret laughed. “What else is there to do? A bit of telly, some internet browsing, but mostly reading.”
“Well, Harold and I have been plotting. My birthday’s tomorrow—you hadn’t forgotten, had you?”
“Oh, Alice! My scatterbrain! Of course I’d have remembered… eventually.”
“Never mind. You’re invited—just a small gathering tomorrow evening. A few friends. You’ll come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The next day, Margaret prepared carefully. She assessed herself in the mirror—a few laughter lines, a slight droop here and there.
“Well, I’m not a spring chicken, but elegance has its perks,” she told her reflection with a smile.
That evening, she arrived with a gift in hand. Stepping into Alice’s flat, she spotted the guests—and, merciful heavens, the colonel was among them.
“Margaret! Come in!” Alice chirped, steering her straight to Edward’s side.
“Good evening,” Margaret greeted everyone, pretending not to notice when the colonel’s gaze flickered over her with interest.
The party warmed up nicely. Harold, ever the entertainer, toasted Alice with such charm it almost made Margaret envious.
Across from her, Barbara—a plump, ruffled woman with an alarming décolletage—was already angling for the colonel’s attention. She’d brought him pies before, playing the doting neighbour. He never refused.
“Delicious, thank you,” was his usual polite reply.
Margaret felt an odd pang watching Barbara’s obvious admiration, but she shrugged it off.
Toasts were made, laughter flowed, and soon Harold put on music. Couples rose to dance. Margaret waited, hoping Edward might ask her—but Barbara beat her to it, practically hauling him up.
Margaret tried not to stare as they swayed to the slow melody. Then, when the dance ended, Edward returned—only to brush against her, thigh to knee. She froze, meeting his warm brown eyes. Her heart plummeted, unused to such attention.
“Apologies,” he murmured.
“None needed,” she whispered back.
Another song began. This time, Edward stood first, cutting off Barbara’s grab for his hand. “May I?” he asked Margaret, leading her to the floor.
Her heart soared. He danced with military precision, steering her firmly, pulling her close at turns to murmur compliments.
“My word, his hands are strong. And that smile—when has he ever smiled at me before?” Her thoughts tumbled before vanishing entirely.
She forgot the room, forgot everything—until she caught Barbara’s glare. If looks could kill, Margaret would’ve been six feet under.
“Look at her, twisting in his arms like some prize,” Barbara fumed inwardly. “As if he’d ever glance my way like that!”
Edward noticed none of it. For the first time in seven years, his heart felt light. “Thought I’d turned to stone,” he mused. “And yet here I am, blood warming, heart singing.”
As the evening wound down, Edward guided Margaret toward the door. “Best not outstay our welcome,” he said loudly, thanking Harold and Alice. Outside, he offered, “A gentleman sees you home. Or… perhaps a nightcap at mine?”
Margaret longed to see his flat—to glimpse his life. But she demurred. “Another time?”
“Another time,” he agreed.
The night was balmy, fragrant with blooming lilac.
“Fancy a stroll?” he asked.
“How did he know?” she marvelled, nodding eagerly.
They walked for ages before he escorted her home. By then, she didn’t mind inviting him in—and he accepted before she’d finished asking.
Watching them leave, Alice and Harold exchanged knowing looks.
“Still some life in the old boy yet,” Harold chuckled later, climbing into bed. “All that nonsense about him being broken—bah! A woman can thaw any man if she tries.”
These days, Margaret and Edward stroll arm in arm, perfectly content—much to Barbara’s chagrin. Turns out, the colonel’s heart wasn’t so unfeeling after all.
