The morning began with a strange silence in the hallway. Emily Whitaker noticed that the wall clock had stopped, its hands frozen at five to six. She gave it a gentle shake, pressed an ear to its facenothing but stillness. Maybe the batterys dead, she thought, or perhaps it was a sign. But a sign of what? All the milestones shed expected had already come and gone. The children were grown and had flown the nest. Her husband, thank heavens, was alive and well, though for the past five days hed been staying with an old schoolmate at his cottage in the Cotswolds. The loneliness she had grown accustomed to felt unusually heavy and tangible in those early minutes.
She poured herself a mug of tea and, while waiting for it to steep, her eyes fell on a cardboard box of old postcards shed pulled from the attic the night before while tidying up. Emily reached in, randomly pulling out a yellowed envelope. Inside was not a postcard but a letter, written in a fine, almost childlike hand. Dear Emily, happy birthday and I wish you The usual wellmeaning wishes followed, but her heart skipped a beat when she saw the signature: Always yours, Simon.
SimonSimon Harper, her university sweetheart, the man she once thought shed marry. Life, however, had taken them in different directions. Hed moved to Newcastle to look after his ailing grandmother, and their letters grew sparser until they stopped altogether. Emily later married Thomas, had two children, and for thirty years she barely remembered him. He became a ghost from a different life, a vague echo with no place in her present.
Now, holding that longforgotten letter, a sharp pang of regret washed over her. Not for the path shed takenshe loved the life shed builtbut for a thread that had been cut short, left hanging in the air, unresolved. What had become of Simon? Was he still alive?
The thought seemed foolish, conjured by the quiet morning and the stopped clock. She set the letter aside, finished her tea, and turned to the chores. Yet Simons image lingered. She recalled autumn walks in the university park, him reciting verses of Wordsworth that she pretended to understand just to hear his voice.
The whole day slipped by in a hazy, meditative state as she cleared rooms, sorted photographs, letters, and knickknacks. The silent clock watched her from the hallway.
The next day she bought a new battery, slipped it into the clock, and the hands shivered back to life. A familiar tick-tock filled the entryway, and just then the phone rang.
Emily? said a voice as familiar as a dream. Its Simon. Sorry to bother you I dont know how to explain it. Ive been thinking about you all day, like an obsessive idea. I found your number through mutual friends You probably have no memory of me.
She stared at the nowsteady clock. She hadnt forgotten; shed simply tucked the memory away, like something precious and useless hidden in a drawer. Now it resurfacednot to overturn everything, but to place a period, or perhaps an ellipsis.
I remember you, Simon, she replied softly. I was just rereading your letter yesterday.
A stunned silence hung on the other end.
No way he whispered. You know, I found a photo of us by the river yesterday. We were…
They talked for more than an hour. He lived three hours away, in a market town near Leeds. He had an adult daughter and a little grandson; his wife had died five years earlier.
They agreed to meet, just for coffee and a chat.
Emily set the receiver down and walked to the window. Rain drummed against the sill, washing the grime away. She didnt know what would happen next. Nothing was settled, nothing shattered; the stopped clock had simply started again, and a faint, new ticking began to echo in her orderly, predictable life.
She made no plans, didnt even picture the meetingfear of jinxing it, fear of being misled by her own expectations. She lived the next few days in a strange, trembling state, as if walking on thin spring ice, feeling it flex beneath her feet, ready to crack.
Thomas returned from the cottage, sunkissed and smelling of barbecue. He chatted about a days fishing and how he and a mate had repaired the sauna. Emily nodded, smiled, set a bowl of soup on the table, and caught herself watching him from a slight distancehis familiar, kind face, the hands that wielded a hammer or lifted a fork with confidence. She thought, this is my husband, the man Ive shared a life with. Yet beyond the doorstep lingered another life, a phantom in the form of a silverhaired man with a voice from the past.
On the day of the meeting she chose a simple beige dress, the one Thomas always said suited her. She applied only a hint of mascara. Why bother? she asked herself. To prove to him that time has been kind, or to convince myself?
Simon picked a quiet café off the main high street, a cosy spot with small tables and the smell of fresh scones. Emily entered and saw him at a window, nervously fiddling with a napkin, staring into his own cup. In that instant she recognized not the young guitarist shed once known, but the man before her nowlines around his eyes, hands resting on the table, no longer boyish. He looked up, stood, and his face showed not excitement but a hushed, almost frightened awe: Is that really you?
Emily, he said, his voice trembling.
Simon, she answered, sitting down because her legs felt weak.
The first few minutes were fillerweather, traffic, how the town had changed. He confessed hed driven there feeling like he was taking an exam, changing shirts three times. She laughed, and the ice began to melt.
Then memories surfaced, tentative at first, like dipping a toe into water, then bolder. They laughed at the absurdities of university life that had once seemed tragic. They recalled a dreaded statics professor and nocturnal walks through the streets of London with their whole cohort.
When the coffee cups were empty and new ones sat untouched, a pause settled in, the one that demanded the crucial words.
Ive spent a long time regretting, Simon said, not looking at her, turning his saucer. Regretting not taking you with me, not pushing harder. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving us time. But time wasnt on our side.
Emily stayed silent. What could she say? That she too regretted? That would be false. The road shed taken had blossomed into a life with Thomas, children, joys and sorrows. To regret it would betray everything.
Dont, Simon, she whispered. Dont regret. Everything happened as it should. We were young and foolish. If youd insisted and Id gone wed probably have fallen out within a month, turning to ash. Youd have become the man who stole my life in London, and Id have been a burden to you and your grandmother.
He met her gaze, surprise and a melancholy clarity there.
You really think that?
Im sure of it. We idealised the past, Simon. We fell in love not with each other, but with our memories, with the two youths who no longer exist.
He leaned back, sigheda breath that felt both relieved and disappointed.
Youre always wiser than I am. I came here I dont know why. Maybe hoping for a miracle, hoping wed see each other and time would roll back.
Time never rolls back, she said gently, smiling. It just is. It was ours, and thats beautiful. But now its something else.
They left the café together, and he walked her to the car.
Thank you for coming, he said. And for the honesty.
Thank you for finding me, she replied. It meant a lot to know.
He gave a tentative hand; she took itwarm, solid, realand let go.
Driving home, she watched the streets shed once raced down as a reckless teenager. Nothing had changed, everything had. She felt neither sorrow nor emptiness, only a bright, clean quiet inside, like a room after a long conversation when everythings been said and the heart is light.
At home Thomas was watching the football on the telly. When he saw her, he muted the sound.
Hows it go? he asked, simply, not Where have you been? or Who were you with? He knew, shed told him the night before, shed met an old classmate after a hundred years.
Nothing much, she replied. We just talked.
Good fellow? he asked, and there was no jealousy, no suspicion, just genuine interest.
Good, she nodded. But a stranger.
She moved to the kitchen to fill the kettle. Her eyes fell on a vase of lilac that Thomas had gathered from the garden that morningpurple, fragrant bunches. She brushed the cool, damp petals.
Thomas entered, slipped his arms around her from behind, rested his chin on her head.
I love you, he said, as matteroffact as if announcing tomorrows rain.
I know, she answered, closing her eyes. And I love you.
She realised the stopped clock hadnt frozen time to bring the past back; it had simply marked the moment she was fully rooted in the present. Everything that had happened was necessary, and everything that existed now was the only right place in the universe.
The ticking never ceased again, but now she knew it was steady, true.
