By the Well…
Margaret “Maggie” Whitworth, hoisting the wooden yoke onto her shoulders with a grunt, trudged along the narrow village path, the iron buckets clinking softly in the crisp morning air. The water from the well—clear, icy, pure—was sacred to her. Even past seventy, she made this daily pilgrimage to the end of the lane. Stubborn as an oak, she’d wave off her daughter-in-law’s nagging.
“Honestly, Mum! We’ve got tap water right here—why do this to yourself? People think you’re barmy!” huffed Emily, rolling her eyes.
But Maggie paid no mind. Tap water? She wouldn’t even brew tea with it—”tastes like pipes,” she’d mutter. The well water was different. Fresh. Alive. Sweet as a memory’s tear.
She paused, set the buckets down, and straightened, closing her eyes a moment. A breeze rustled the leaves of a young lime tree—planted recently by the well. Once, an ancient walnut tree had stood there, broad and mighty, where she’d met Thomas in her youth.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart raced when she’d dash to the well! And there he’d be—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the stone rim, waiting. Every girl in the village envied her. Especially Sarah, her closest friend.
“Try anything with him, Sarah,” Maggie—then just a girl called Rose—had warned, “and I’ll fight for him with everything I’ve got.”
Sarah had smirked, ducking her head. “A fortune-teller told me he’d be mine. Only joking!” she’d added quickly.
Rose had brushed it off. But unease took root. Then—fever struck. Burning, weak, she begged Sarah: “Go to the well. Tell Tommy not to wait. Say I’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Sarah had smiled… oddly. Then vanished, her footsteps clicking away. What she’d told Thomas, Rose never learned. But when she returned the next day, she found them together.
Side by side they stood. Rose turned, icy breath in her lungs, and ran. Tears choked her; her heart tore free.
A week later, a neighbour—quiet, gentle Edward—asked for her hand.
“Send the vicar round, Ned,” she’d said coldly, clutching the ache in her chest. “Before I change my mind.”
Sarah came later, weeping. “Nothing happened with Tommy, Rose, I swear—”
“You got what you wanted. And you won’t be happy. Neither will I. Now go. Go and don’t come back.”
The wedding felt like burying a dream. Her parents fretted, but Edward… Edward spent years ensuring she’d never regret it.
He cooked, washed, rose for the children at night. The village knew him—hardworking, kind. But love? Rose couldn’t kindle it. Respect, yes. But no fire.
Sarah married Thomas. He didn’t stay. Left straight after the vows—off to “build a house” (Lancashire, then Newcastle), fleeing her. Until word came: crushed by timber at a mill.
The village buried him. Rose didn’t go. Couldn’t parade her grief. But that night, she visited the fresh grave. Stood. Prayed. Didn’t know for what. Just wept—silent, endless, as if she’d held her breath for years.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. Sarah. In black. Their eyes met. They parted without a word.
Decades passed. Sarah died. Rose now walked the churchyard often—tending Edward’s grave, her parents’… and that pair of stones. Cleaning, weeding. Until one evening, she saw Sarah again, ghostly as dusk.
“Still visiting him, Rose? Even now?”
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Maybe that’s comfort enough.”
And then Rose understood—she’d never loved Thomas. Only the dream of him. The what-could-have-been. While beside her all along stood a man—real. Steady. Tender. Edward. Her husband, her rock. And she’d hidden in memories like an old trunk, hunting the scent of the past.
No more bitterness toward Sarah. None of it mattered now.
…Maggie lifted the buckets. Inhaled the marigolds’ spice—time to cut some for the grave. Sarah had adored them. That bold, tangy fragrance… like a promise unkept.
From the path, she called: “Ned! Ned, I’ve something to say!”
“What’s wrong?” he answered, alarmed.
She smiled, pressing her face to his chest. “I love you, Ned.”
Blushing like a girl, she felt his arms tighten—wordless. His eyes held it all: surprise, warmth… and the love he’d carried through their years.
Rose never passed those two graves again without stopping. Wiping the granite, whispering prayers. As if hoping, somewhere beyond, they’d found peace. Real. Everlasting.
