Adrian lingered on old Edwards words for a long time. “You need a woman in the house.” Yes, he knew the man was right. Each evening, returning to his empty flat, the silence weighed on him. The cold walls and the lingering scent of Sophies untouched clothes in the wardrobe reminded him of his loss more sharply than the grave itself.
Months passed, and the neighbours began dropping hints. “Adrian, theres a young widow moved to the market townperhaps you might call on her” “A quiet girl attends church regularly; should I put in a word” But nothing stirred him. Until the day Edward took him by the arm and led him to the cottage of a distant cousin, Joan.
Joan wasnt pretty by village standards. Her face was round, her nose too broad, her eyes a faded grey, and her movements slow. The village women whispered, “Poor Adrianafter Sophie, look what hes settled for.” And so the cruel nickname stuck: the plain wife.
What they didnt see was her gentleness. Joan cooked without complaint, drew water from the well tirelessly, and above all, she listened. Adrian, who for months had had no one to share his grief with, found in her a rare peace.
Their wedding was simpleno fuss. Two witnesses, a vicar, and a few candles. Adrian felt no spark of passion, but something else: an anchor. And after years of storms, an anchor is worth more than any beauty.
At first, people pitied him. “He only chose her so he wouldnt be alone.” “No luck with women, that one.” But gradually, the whispers faded. Adrians home, once hollow with silence, now smelled of warm bread and dried herbs. On long winter evenings, Joan read softly from Sophies old books, and Adrian closed his eyes, feeling the sharpness of his pain begin to dull.
One day, old Edward stopped by. He lingered in the doorway, watching Joan sew by the window while Adrian brought in firewood. Smiling beneath his white moustache, he murmured, “Pretty or plain, it doesnt matter. What matters is youve found each other.”
Adrian turned to him and, for the first time since the funeral, smiled truly. Perhaps the village would always call Joan “the plain wife,” but to him, she was lifes unexpected giftproof that true beauty lies not in a face, but in the quiet it brings to your soul.
And in that quiet, Adrian finally felt alive again.
