The Last Carriage
Elizabeth strolled leisurely toward the supermarket, watching the bustle around her—especially the men, frantic ahead of the holiday tomorrow. She had always loved Women’s Day, back when her husband would bring her flowers, and they’d make an effort to celebrate. But for years now, since his passing, she’d lived alone.
At fifty-eight, after witnessing the misfortunes of her friends, she had no desire to start over with someone new.
“All the decent men are long taken, firmly married. And I won’t settle for just anyone—I don’t need the hassle. Yes, it gets lonely, but my children and grandchildren visit,” she told her friend Margaret over tea at the café. “Honestly, I’ve grown used to life without my husband. No point changing things now.”
Margaret, happily married, her husband a steady rock, pitied Elizabeth—a good woman, widowed too soon.
“Maybe you’ll still meet someone,” Margaret offered hopefully.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Where would I find a good man now? I don’t even want to think about it,” Elizabeth replied, steering the conversation to their children and grandchildren instead.
She truly had grown accustomed to solitude. The noise and rush tired her, but groceries couldn’t wait. Evening approached, early spring clinging to the air, wet snowflakes sticking to the pavement. Her son had dropped by earlier with flowers.
“Mum, here—happy Women’s Day. I won’t see you tomorrow, we’re all heading to the countryside… You’re welcome to join, of course.”
“Thank you, love, but I’d rather stay home. Bit of a headache, spring coming in,” she’d politely declined.
Lost in thought, she entered the supermarket, picking up a few essentials before joining the queue at the till. The festive commotion amused her—men scrambling for tulips or daffodils, suddenly remembering their beloved wives.
“Lucky them, only one hectic day a year. Women? Always in a whirl—shopping, cooking, dressing up…”
Then a rich, woody cologne caught her attention. It came from the man ahead of her, tall and silver-haired, his trolley piled high. She studied his back, his coat well-tailored.
“Someone’s husband,” she mused. “Stocking up for his family.”
He held the trolley with one hand, his phone in the other, answering tersely:
“Yes, got it. Yes, that too. Be home soon.”
“Talking to his wife, no doubt.”
As he went to pocket his phone, it slipped. Elizabeth lunged, catching it just before it hit the tiled floor. The man whirled around, and the look in his eyes sent a jolt through her.
“Bloody hell—nearly sixty and feeling like this?” she thought, stunned.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the phone with a smile. “Now I owe you.”
“Don’t mention it,” she murmured.
His turn came, and he left swiftly, trolley rattling toward the car park.
“That’s that, then,” she sighed at the till, gathering her bags.
Outside, she nearly collided with him again. He’d waited, hood now up against the snow.
“William,” he introduced himself.
“Elizabeth,” she said, pulse quickening.
“I’m grateful you caught my phone. Might I have your number?”
Hypnotized, she recited it. He thanked her, vanished into the snowfall, and was gone.
“What just happened?” she wondered, trudging home.
Later, in her cosy jumper and thick socks, she settled with tea, the telly playing her favourite show—ordinary people singing their hearts out, stories of love found late.
Her phone rang.
“Good evening. It’s William. May I come over?” His deep voice nearly made her drop the receiver.
“Of course,” she blurted, then panicked. “Though—he said he won’t be alone. Bringing his wife to thank me?”
She imagined her—elegant, younger. “Should’ve changed. Too late now.”
The doorbell chimed. She opened it—and a shaggy golden retriever barrelled into her, tail whipping.
“Steady on, Charlie!” William laughed, brushing snow from his coat, a bouquet of red roses in hand.
“I thought you meant your wife,” Elizabeth admitted.
“Ex-wife. Ran off to Spain with some bloke,” he said lightly. “The shopping was for my mum—she gives me lists. Sister too, sometimes.”
Flustered, she ushered him in, regretting her slouchy attire.
“Tea? I’ve cherry cake—felt like I’d have guests.”
“Perfect.” He glanced around. “Family nearby?”
“My son brought tulips today. Daughter’s up in Scotland—visits when she can.”
She fidgeted, aware of his gaze. “Sorry for the state of me—wasn’t expecting company.”
William stepped closer, took her hands. “You’re lovelier like this,” he murmured. “Elizabeth… today, I realised you’re my last train home. I’m glad I caught it in time.”
Her throat tightened. “And you’re mine. No regrets.”
They drank tea, Charlie nestled between them, watching with wise brown eyes.
“Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate properly,” William said. “Tonight’s just the rehearsal.”
She moved into his countryside house later that year—Charlie had acres to roam. Now they host often: Margaret and her husband, William’s old friends. And every March, without fail, they mark the day they met—two souls boarding the same train, just in time.
