**Meeting on the Bridge**
The autumn wind swept fallen leaves across the pavement, sending them spiralling before they settled gently on the ground. Oliver was walking back from his parents’ house, having left his car in their driveway—he’d had a drink with his father, who had just returned from a wellness retreat and was regaling his wife and son with tales of how wonderful it had been.
“Next time, love, you should come with me. It was a bit dull on my own,” his father said with a chuckle.
“Dad, there must be loads of single women there. You could’ve had a laugh,” Oliver teased, winking and watching for his mother’s reaction.
“Plenty of women, but they were all ill and older than me. Besides, why would I trade your mother for anyone?” His father smiled warmly at his wife.
Oliver had stayed late—he’d come alone, as usual. Emily never wanted to visit. His parents lived just a short walk from the flat he rented with her. They’d never warmed to Emily, though they’d been polite enough. Still, his mother had once told him,
“Oliver, she’s not the one for you. Emily isn’t the settling-down type, trust me—I’ve got a good eye for these things.”
“Mum, how can you say that? You’ve only met her once.”
“Fine, son. Live your life. Just remember this later. At least you’re not rushing to the registry office. Don’t worry—Emily won’t even notice how we feel.”
That morning, before leaving for work, Oliver had mentioned he’d be stopping by his parents’ place after hours. His father was back from his trip.
“Let’s meet up, Em. It’s your day off—come by Mum and Dad’s, and we’ll visit them together.”
“Can’t, Ol. I promised Sophie I’d visit—you know, she’s off sick from work. And I’ve got a nail appointment booked ages ago—I can’t cancel now,” Emily replied.
Oliver had known she wouldn’t come but asked anyway, just in case.
“All right, then. I might be late—Dad’s bound to pour me a celebratory drink since he’s just back.” He kissed her and left for work.
“No rush. I’ll be at Sophie’s a while,” Emily called after him.
“Call me when you’re heading home—don’t wander around in the dark,” he said.
Evening had settled over the city, the sparse streetlights struggling against the deepening gloom. Though it wasn’t late, autumn nights fell quickly. Oliver didn’t bother calling Emily—she was probably home already. He walked in high spirits, having shared a drink with his father and a laugh with his mother.
But when he opened the flat door, playful laughter drifted from the bedroom. Peering in, he saw his best friend hastily dressing while Emily murmured,
“Hurry up, Mark. Ol could be back any minute, and we don’t want—” Then she spotted Oliver in the doorway and froze.
His legs carried him out before his mind caught up.
“Emily and my best mate… Never in my worst nightmares…”
Dazed, he wandered aimlessly, numb. No destination, no will to go on. He found himself on a bridge, cars speeding past, headlights blinding him. He turned away, staring down into the dark water below.
Suddenly, a hand touched his sleeve. He turned to see an elderly man with spectacles and a neat beard. The stranger’s voice was frail but kind.
“Young man, don’t you think it’s a bit high up here? I don’t usually meddle in others’ affairs, but I hope I’m right in thinking you’re not considering anything… drastic?” He nodded toward the river.
Oliver snapped back to reality, horrified at the implication.
“God, no! I’d never…”
“Good lad,” the old man said. “Which way are you headed?”
“Not sure. Just walking.”
“Then walk me home. I live past the park—if you don’t mind?” Oliver agreed.
“By the way, my name’s Harold Whitmore.”
“Oliver.”
They crossed the bridge, the river below narrow and quiet. Harold told him he’d taught economics at university until retiring three years ago.
“Took some getting used to—too much free time. But my granddaughter had a baby boy, so now there’s plenty to keep me busy. Just me, Alice, and little Arthur now.”
Harold’s steady voice soothed him.
“Oliver, something’s happened,” the old man said, not as a question but a fact. “You don’t have to say. But if you’ve nowhere to go, why not come to mine? Plenty of space—you could even stay the night.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude. It’s late, and the little one…”
“Arthur’s in bed by nine, and it’s not even half-past eight. Come on.”
Oliver didn’t know why he followed—perhaps because he had nowhere else to go. The flat was quiet when they entered. Harold put the kettle on.
“Sit down. Tea’ll fix things.”
Oliver finally took in his host—tall, silver-haired, with an air of a kindly professor. He set out cups carefully, a plate of biscuits on the table.
“Grandad, who’s this?” A small voice piped up. A boy of about three peered at Oliver.
“This is Oliver, Arthur. Our guest.”
“I’m Arthie,” the boy announced, extending a hand. Oliver smiled despite himself.
“Pleasure, Arthur. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Nope.” Arthur shook his head just as Alice appeared—Harold’s granddaughter.
“Oh! I didn’t know we had company,” she said softly.
“I knew!” Arthur chirped, bouncing beside her.
“This is Alice. And Oliver,” Harold introduced.
Alice poured the tea while Arthur insisted on showing Oliver his toys. Eventually, she sighed.
“Arthur, bedtime.”
The boy pouted.
“I’ll visit again,” Oliver promised. “All good boys sleep early.”
Arthur considered this, nodded solemnly, and took his mother’s hand, waving goodbye.
“He doesn’t warm to just anyone,” Harold mused.
Oliver left for work the next morning from Harold’s—they had a spare room. That evening, he collected his car from his parents’ and returned home. Emily’s things were still there. He braced for the storm.
She arrived soon after, flustered.
“Oliver! Where were you? I was so worried—”
“Really? Pack your things and go. Honestly, I thought you’d have left already.”
“Ol, you’re not even going to let me explain? It was Mark’s fault—”
“Spare me. Just leave.” He sat on the sofa, phone in hand.
No best friend. No girlfriend. A fresh start.
At work, he remembered Arthur’s bright eyes and found himself longing to see him again. And Alice—her soft smile, her warm gaze.
“I’m leaving. Be gone by the time I’m back.” He took her keys and walked out, ignoring her protests.
He stopped at a toy shop, bought a model car, and headed to Harold’s. Alice answered, flushed with surprise.
“Oliver! Come in.”
Arthur barrelled into him, dragging him to play. Alice kept glancing in, smiling as Oliver and Arthur raced toy cars across the floor. Harold stroked his beard, pleased.
“Arthur, Oliver must be hungry. You’ve eaten,” Alice chided.
“You hungry?” Arthur asked seriously.
“Starving,” Oliver admitted.
They ate together, Harold joining them for tea.
Over a year later, Oliver stood outside the hospital with Harold and Arthur, waiting for Alice and their newborn daughter, Lily. His heart swelled as he kissed his wife and gazed at their sleeping child.
A chance meeting on a bridge had changed everything. Sometimes, the darkest moments lead to the brightest beginnings.
