At the wake for my husband, a silverhaired stranger slipped up beside me and whispered, Now were free. He was the man I had loved at twenty, the one fate had torn away.
The mourners breaths hung heavy with damp grief. Every footstep that struck the coffins lid thudded like a muted echo against my ribs.
Fifty years. A whole life lived with David. A life built on quiet respect that had blossomed into tenderness.
I did not weep. My tears had already dried the night before, while I sat at his bedside, clutching his cooling hand, listening to his breath grow fainter until it stopped altogether.
Through a black veil I saw the sympathetic faces of relatives and acquaintancesempty words, perfunctory embraces. My children, Benjamin and Emily, held me gently, yet their touch barely registered.
Then he approachedgrayhaired, deeplined around the eyes, yet still bearing the straight back I remembered. He leaned close enough to my ear, and his familiar, tremulous whisper cut through the veil of sorrow.
Elizabeth. Now were free.
For an instant I stopped breathing. The scent of his colognesandalwood and something piney, forestlikehit my temples.
In that scent lay everything: arrogance and pain, past and an illtimed present. I lifted my gaze. Oliver. My Oliver.
The world swayed. The thick incense gave way to the smell of hay and stormladen rain. I was twenty again.
We ran, hands clasped, his palm warm and strong. The wind tangled my hair while his laughter rose above the clatter of horses hooves. We fled my house, fled the future that stretched out on a chart for years.
This Sutherland isnt right for you! roared my father, Charles Mathewson. Hes got not a penny of reputation, nor a standing in society!
Mother Sarah Anderton crossed her arms, scolding with a cold stare.
Think again, Elizabeth! Hell ruin you.
I remember my reply, quiet yet as firm as steel.
My disgrace is to live without love. Your honour is a cage.
We discovered it by chancea ramshackle foresters hut, vines creeping up its windows. It became our world.
Six months, one hundred eightythree days of pure, desperate happiness. We chopped wood, fetched water from the well, read a single book by the glow of an oil lamp. It was hard, hungry, cold.
But we breathed the same air.
One winter, Oliver fell seriously ill. He lay feverish, like a coal stove. I brewed bitter herbs, swapped icy washcloths on his forehead, and prayed to every deity I could name.
Staring at his wan face, I realised that this was my chosen life.
They found us in spring, lilacs already pushing through the thaw. No shouts, no strugglejust three grim men in identical overcoats and my father.
The game is over, Elizabeth, he said, as if speaking of a lost chess match.
Two men held Oliver. He made no move, no cry. He simply stared at me, his eyes filled with such pain I nearly choked. A gaze that promised, I will find you.
They carted me away. The bright, living forest gave way to the dim, dustfilled rooms of my parents house, reeking of mothballs and unfulfilled hopes.
Silence became the chief punishment. No one raised their voice at me. I was ignored, as if I were a piece of furniture destined for removal.
A month later my father entered my room, his eyes fixed on the window.
On Saturday, David Mathewson will arrive with his son. Get yourself in order.
I said nothing. What was the point?
David was the antithesis of Olivercalm, few words, eyes kind but tired. He spoke of books, of his engineering firm, of future plans that left no room for madness or escape.
Our wedding was in autumn. I stood in a white dress, like a ghost, and mechanically said I do. My father was satisfied; he had secured the proper soninlaw, the proper match.
The first years with David were like a thick fog.
I lived, breathed, went through motions, but never truly awoke. I was the obedient wifecooking, cleaning, greeting him after work. He never demanded anything. He was patient.
Sometimes at night, when he thought I slept, I felt his gaze. It held no passion, only an endless, deep pity, sharper than any paternal scorn.
One day he brought a sprig of lilac into the room.
Spring is outside, he whispered.
The bittersweet scent filled the room, and for the first time in months I wept.
David sat beside me, offering no hug, no comfort, just his quiet presence. His silence spoke louder than a thousand words.
Life went on. Our son, Benjamin, was born, then our daughter, Emily. Their tiny fingers, their laughter, melted the ice in my heart.
I learned to value Davidhis reliability, his steady strength, his kindness. He became my friend, my anchor. I loved him, not with the first, fiery blaze, but with a quiet, mature devotion.
Oliver never left. He haunted my dreams; we ran the fields again, lived in that tiny hut once more.
I awoke with cheeks wet, and David, without a word, squeezed my hand tighter. He understood everything and forgave everything.
I wrote dozens of letters to Oliverletters never sent, burned in the fireplace, watching the flames devour words meant for another.
Did I ever ask about him? No. Fear held me backthe terror of shattering the fragile world I had built, of discovering he had moved on, remarried, forgotten.
That fear outweighed hope.
Now he stood at my husbands funeral. Time had smoothed the youthful lines from his face, but his eyes still cut through me.
The condolences passed in a haze. I nodded, mumbled, my whole being taut like a string, feeling his presence behind me.
When the crowd dispersed, he remained by the window, watching the garden darken.
I’ve been looking for you, Elizabeth, he said, voice low, hoarse.
I wrote to you. Every month, for five years. Your father returned each letter unopened.
He turned to me.
And then I learned youd married.
The room grew heavy, each of Olivers words settling like dust on the portrait of David that perched on the mantel. Five years. Sixty letters that could have changed everything.
My father I began, but my voice broke. What could I say? That hed broken not one, but two lives, acting on the best of intentions?
He came to me a week after we were torn apart. He set a condition: I would leave town forever and never contact you.
Instead of a legal claim for abduction of my daughter, he smirked crookedly. It was a joke, but at twenty I was scared not for myself, but for you.
He recounted his exile to a remote mining region, the silence, the months of lost letters, his belief that he could run from everything. You cant run from yourself, he muttered, running a hand through his silver hair. I wrote to your aunt, hoping it would reach you.
He thought it safer. My father, with his stern chin and domineering stare, must have anticipated it. Expeditions lasted two to three years; when I returned after five, it was too late.
The room where Id spent fifty years with David suddenly felt foreign. The walls, soaked in our shared life, watched me silently. The armchair where David liked to read, the table where we played chesseverything was real, warm, mine. Now a ghost from the past shattered the present.
Me? I asked softly, fearing his answer.
Im alive, Elizabeth. I worked, roamed the wilderness, tried to forget. It never worked. Then I met a woman, a doctor on the expedition. We married, had two sons, Peter and Alexander.
He spoke plainly, without bravado. That plainness cut deeper than any wound. My lifelong dream of him waiting alone crumbled into a thousand shards.
He was alive. He had a family, a life where I had no place.
A strange, misplaced jealousy rosejealousy of a past that never existed for me.
She was called Catherine. She died seven years ago, illness. He looked past the wall. The boys grew up, scattered. I came back to this town a year ago.
A whole year? I snapped. Why now?
What else could I have done, Elizabeth? Come here, to your home?
Id seen him a few timesin the park, near the theatre. Youd walked arminarm with a man, speaking softly, looking serene. I had no right to disrupt that.
What did you want today, Oliver? I interrupted, needing the truth. Why break my world when Im barely recovered from loss?
I saw his obituary. Your husbands name. I remembered him, and I knew I had to come. Not to demand anything, but to close this door, or maybe open it. I dont even know.
He stepped closer.
Elizabeth, Im not asking you to forget your life. I see from this house, from the photographs, that you were happy.
Your husband he had the face of a good man. I just want to know if any ember of that fire still burns in you.
I stared at himthe silverhaired, exhausted man, the faint echo of that desperate youth. I also stared at Davids portrait, his gentle, understanding eyes.
One gave me half a year of blazing fire; the other gave me fifty years of steady warmth I learned to value too late.
I dont know, I said honestly. All I know is that today I buried my husband. I loved him.
He nodded, his eyes softening with understandingnot resentment, but plain comprehension.
I understand. Ill return in forty days, if youll allow it.
He left. The sound of the closing door offered no relief. Instead, the house, emptied after the wake, filled with loud, unanswered questions.
Forty days. In Anglican tradition that marks the period for the souls departure. For me, those forty days were meant to sort the worlds within.
The first week I sorted Davids thingsa torturous, therapeutic act. His favourite sweater still smelled faintly of tobacco. His spectacles lay on the desk beside an unfinished book. Every object shouted his name, our quiet, measured life.
In a drawer I found an old tin boxnot documents or awards, but dried flowers Id once woven into my hair, a cinema ticket from our first date, a faded photograph of me at twentyone.
I stared at the photo, the camera capturing me seriously, almost hostilely. He had kept that picture for fifty years, preserving the woman he received, not the one he imagined. That silent adoration held more love than any passionate vow.
Days slipped by. The children called, visited, brought groceries. Their presence only deepened my guilt.
One afternoon my daughter, Emily, embraced me and said, Mum, we know its hard. Dad loved you more than anything. He always said you were the best thing in his life.
Her words were sincere, making my betrayal of Olivers memory even sharper.
I stopped sleeping. At night I sat in my chair, looking into the dark garden. Two images stood before me: the wild, burning passion of youth, and the deep, calm river of maturity. Could they be compared? Could I choose? It was like choosing between sun and airboth essential to life.
I realised Oliver had been wrong about the ember. The ember remained, but David had built a sturdy house around itwarm, reliable, belonging to me. Destroying it meant destroying myself.
On the fortieth day I woke clearheaded. I baked traditional seed cakes for the memorial, laid Davids portrait on the table, and set a fresh photograph of him beside it.
I didnt know if Oliver would come, nor what I would say.
After lunch I stepped into the garden to prune the roses David loved. The cold autumn air bit at my cheeks.
A creak from the gate. He stood on the path, hesitating, a small bouquet of wild daisies in his handsthose hed given me at the foresters hut long ago.
He took a step, then another. I tightened my grip on the garden shears, not moving.
Good day, Elizabeth, he said.
Good day, Oliver.
He offered the flowers. I didnt take them.
Thank you, theyre lovely, but I dont need them, I replied.
Pain flickered in his eyesthe same as fifty years before.
I loved my husband, I said, voice low but firm, each word forged in sleepless nights. He was my life, and I will not betray his memory. The path you spoke of its overgrown. Another garden now tends it, and Ill tend it.
I turned and walked back to the house, not looking back. I waited for him to speak, to call out, but he stayed silent.
At the doorway I glanced over my shoulder.
He still stood there. He placed the daisies on the garden bench, turned, and disappeared through the gate.
I shut the door, approached Davids portrait, and lingered on his kind, allunderstanding eyes. For the first time in forty days I smiled. The road wasnt opened; it had been walked. I was home.
Five years later.
The garden bench, now weathered, still bears the daisies Oliver left, but its often occupied by my grandchildren. They leave toys, halfread books, secret notes. I no longer sit there alone.
Time is a remarkable healer. It does not erase scars, but smooths them into fine silver threads in the fabric of life.
The grief for David settled into a gentle, quiet sorrow mixed with immense gratitude.
The house ceased to be a place of mourning. It filled again with laughter, the scent of apple crumble on Sundays.
I never heard from Oliver again. Occasionally, alone, I think of himnot with bitterness or regret, but with a grown, detached curiosity.
What became of his life after our last words? Had he found peace?
I wish him that. He was a chapter from my youthful bookbright, fierce, important. But the book was long read, memorised, and rereading served no purpose.
My life now consists of small rituals: morning tea on the veranda, tending to Davids roses that have grown into a fragrant wall, evening calls with my children, bedtime stories for my greatgrandchildren over video chat.
One day my eldest greatgranddaughter, Kitty, came to visit alone. We sat in the garden, and she, eyes serious, asked, Grandad, were you truly happy with Granddad? Really?
She was at that age when love seems a storm, a fire, something extraordinary. I looked at her searching face and knew a simple answer wouldnt do.
I rose, led her inside, retrieved the faded photograph of me at twentyone, and placed it beside a recent one of me at eighty, surrounded by a bustling family. My face, lined with wrinkles, shone with a smile.
Look, I said. In that picture is a girl who thought happiness was escape. In this one is a woman who learned happiness is building. Not on ashes, but on solid ground.
I took her hand.
Your greatgranddad didnt give me a fire, Kitty. He taught me how to tend it.
He gave me half a year of madness, but half a century of genuine lifewith all its joys and trials. That proved to be the greatest happiness.
Kitty stared at the photos in silence, perhaps understanding.
That night, when the house fell quiet, I slipped out to the garden. The stars were bright and cold.
I thought of the paths we choosethose that lure with the unknown, and those we forge step by step.
Oliver had said the road was open, but he missed the point. Freedom isnt endless roads ahead; its choosing one road and walking it to the end, without regret.
On that path, in my garden, with the memory of my husband and the love of my family, I was truly free.
