**Diary Entry**
I lived in a lovely cottage with a well-tended garden. Hydrangeas and petunias bloomed beside the path, their purple hues so vivid they could steal your breath. Curling up on the garden swing, I’d lose myself in a book while the scent of apricot pie drifted from the oven, mingling with the mint from the bushes. Truly, heaven must smell like that.
I always knew—down to the hour—when he’d arrive. On those mornings, I’d knead the dough, dreaming up new fillings. None of those heavy pies with gravy or stews for me. The magic was in the pastry itself, yielding to my hands, shaping itself perfectly. Funny, really. Once, it had been my grandmother who baked. Now it was me, and I was no grandmother.
He never planned his visits. Weeks would pass, then suddenly—he’d need to see me. Always calling from the road. He had nothing, no one. Just a past—two failed marriages, a son he rarely saw, boxes still piled in the boot of his car, a tangle of memories, and the slow climb from that black pit of anger and grief.
We met the usual way—a seaside party, strangers among strangers. His mate dragged him; my sister persuaded me. Neither of us wanted to be there, so we lingered at the edges. Then he asked me to dance. Bought me a garish red rose from some flower seller. Drove me home clear across London in silence.
After that, everything tangled. And he panicked. Why put his heart through it again? Yet every time the emptiness became unbearable, he’d drive here. Just to bury his face in my hair and whisper, *Hey, you…*
Once, he even muttered he might stay for good. My gaze flickered, then cooled—*Whatever you decide.*
Leaving was like tearing flesh. He’d reach the gate, hesitate, turn back to kiss me. Then try again, only to return once more.
He wished we’d met sooner. Was grateful we’d met at all.
I’d pour tea into a tall mug, slice the pie, and sit across from him. Simple. He’d known fierce passion and sleepless nights—yet somehow, this quiet love, scented with mint and strawberry jam (or raspberry, or blackberry), was what he craved. Our late-night talks. The curve of my hip against his. My sleepy smile. My voice through the phone, bridging miles and satellites.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Called as usual—from the road. Switched off his phone, turned up the radio, never heard the crash.
He’ll never know he was coming to stay.
I’ll never know his daughter has his piercing blue eyes.
