The Last Walk in the Rain
A cold autumn downpour lashed the muddy road leading to the village of Willowbrook. Henry Wilkes, hunched beneath the torrent, trudged stubbornly onward. The mud clung to his boots, each step a struggle, but he refused to stop. Today, he had to be there, beside his Margaret. At last, through the grey veil of rain, the outlines of the old churchyard emerged.
“There’s your birch tree,” Henry whispered, his voice trembling with sorrow.
He approached the modest headstone and sank heavily to his knees, heedless of the icy chill seeping through his soaked clothes. The rain mingled with his tears, streaming down his weathered face. How long he might have stayed there, lost in memories, no one could say. But then, footsteps sounded behind him. Henry turned and froze, his heart tightening with surprise.
That morning had been bleak and dreary. Henry, wrapped in his worn overcoat, stood at the bus stop in town. The bus was late, and his patience wore thin. Nearby, a young woman laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his glower.
“Must you be so loud?” he snapped, irritation spilling over.
“Sorry,” she murmured, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An awkward silence settled. Henry felt a pang of shame—his rudeness had stung even himself. He coughed and muttered,
“Forgive me. I’m not myself today.”
The girl offered a gentle smile. “It’s fine. This weather puts everyone on edge. But I love autumn rain—it smells like the season itself is breathing.”
Henry said nothing, only nodded. He’d never been one for idle chatter—that had always been Margaret’s way. She handled everything, from bills to family gatherings, and he’d taken it all for granted, never questioning it until she was gone. Without her, his world had become as barren as a scorched field.
Unbothered by his silence, the girl continued, “You know, the bus being late might be a good thing. Gives stragglers a chance. My friend hasn’t arrived yet, for one.”
Henry almost argued that cold, wet strangers found little comfort in delays, but a memory surfaced—Margaret. Forty years ago, if he hadn’t scrambled onto that bus in time, their paths might never have crossed. How would her life have unfolded? Might she have been happier without him?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was like a sunbeam, her kindness warming everyone around her.
“I never even knew when she was hurting,” Henry thought, his eyes stinging with tears.
To distract himself, he forced a reply. “Heading to Willowbrook? Quiet place, not much youth left there.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m visiting my Aunt Mary. And you?”
“To see my wife,” Henry murmured. “It’s where she’s from.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Harper. Margaret Harper.”
The girl thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t know her.”
“She moved to town after we married,” Henry explained. “Only came back to visit her parents, and after they passed, rarely returned.”
He fell silent, lost in thought. Margaret had loved Willowbrook, dreaming they’d visit more often as a family. But Henry never had the time. Now time was all he had—family, none. Their son, Thomas, had his own life now, the grandchildren seldom seen.
“There’s my friend!” the girl exclaimed, waving. “Over here, Alice!”
She turned back to Henry, smiling. “Now the bus will come—it always does.”
And it did, rounding the corner just as she spoke. The journey to Willowbrook took nearly two hours. Henry remembered a day in their youth when Margaret had missed the bus, and they’d wandered the streets till midnight—a time full of hope and warmth.
Then came the ordinary days. They rarely argued—arguing with her was impossible. Her patience and kindness knew no bounds. But Henry had changed, taking her love for granted, never treasuring their shared moments.
If he could whisper one word to his younger self, it would be: “Cherish.”
As the bus rumbled into the village, Henry’s pulse quickened. A line from an old book echoed in his mind: “Hell is when there’s never again.”
The rain in Willowbrook fell without pause, drumming on the bus roof. Henry rose heavily.
“My stop.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend followed, sheltering beneath an awning. Seeing where he walked, she called out,
“Where are you going? There’s nothing there but the churchyard!”
Henry paused, turned, but stayed silent. His eyes told the whole story. The girl lowered her gaze, understanding dawning.
The day Margaret had left him forever had seared itself into Henry’s soul. They’d quarrelled over nothing—he’d shut her out, refused supper, stayed cold. Margaret, ever the peacemaker, tried to mend things, but he would not relent.
“I’m going to the shops,” she’d said, wiping tears. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d grunted.
She’d stepped out—and he never saw her again. A car on the crossing took her from him in an instant. Henry’s life had shattered, leaving only guilt and emptiness.
Now he walked the sodden road, numb to the cold. Rain pelted his face, yet he pressed on toward the churchyard. Reaching Margaret’s grave, he knelt.
“There’s your birch tree, my love,” he whispered, his breath ragged with grief.
Tears and rain merged on his skin. Time lost meaning as sorrow swallowed him. Then—footsteps again. Henry turned, and there she stood: the girl from the bus stop, drenched but smiling, holding out an umbrella.
“Sorry to intrude,” she said softly. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching cold. Come with us—wait out the storm.”
Henry leaned on her arm, rising slowly. She added, as if fearing his silence,
“I’m sure she loved you. Was happy with you. And she’d forgive you.”
“Is it so obvious I blame myself?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replied. “Everyone who’s lost someone knows that. But don’t make her sadder still. Take care of yourself. Come on, you’re soaked.”
Henry listened, and in her words, he heard an echo of Margaret—the same care, the same kindness. Slowly, uncertainly, he stepped forward, toward what warmth and light still held him in this world.
