Forty years had slipped by, yet I could not shake his memory. I decided I would find him.
By sheer accident I didscrolling online between a Victoria sponge recipe and an advert for antiwrinkle cream. His name, his photograph: silverthreaded hair, round spectacles, a grin I recognised from a lifetime ago.
I froze, halfinstep. My heart hammered louder, as if some buried part of my body remembered something my mind dared not name. I clicked. An artists profile, a tiny gallery tucked away in Yorks Shambles, pictures of landscapes, ancient gates, a woman at a window. One canvas bore the caption, Autumn remembers more than summer.
I knew it was him. John. My John, the boy I loved in secret throughout every year of my Alevels and long after. After the exams he left, and I stayed.
Life ran its own coursemarriage, children, divorce, then a long, quiet routine. Yet that feeling never truly dimmed; it merely slipped deep inside, like a letter forgotten in a drawer.
Before I could think twice, I typed:
I dont know if you remember me, but I do. If youd like a cup of tea, Ill be in York.
He replied the same day:
I remember. I always have tea after four. My address is on the site.
I booked a train ticket, packed a small bag, a warm cardigan and the old unsent letter. In the carriage I watched the countryside rush pastgolden, russet, frosted treesand felt something strange, as if time were turning back, as if I were eighteen again.
The train hissed into York Station and, for the first time in years, I sensed something truly momentous unfolding. I didnt know what, but I refused to let it slip away.
His studio lay on a narrow lane off the Shambles. Old, cramped steps led to a heavy door with a glazed panel, above it a brass plaque: John M. Painting Studio. My heart pounded as I knocked. A heartbeat of silence, then a familiar voice:
Open.
I entered. The space was not what Id imagined, yet exactly what it had to be: the sharp smell of turpentine, dim light, daylight spilling through a high window, canvases leaned against the walls, a tub of brushes, a cup halffilled with coffee. He stood at the easel, turned slowly, as if hed been waiting for me. He smilednot broadly, but quietly, with his eyes.
You havent changed a bit, he said, though that wasnt true. Still, there was no pretense in his tone.
You havent either, I replied.
He ushered me to an old, soft armchair and set out a kettle. We talked, first about nothingtrains, traffic jams, how York glows in autumnthen about everything: the years that had passed, our separate lives, the loss of loved ones, the loneliness that lingers even in crowds.
The table smelled of fresh bread. Steam rose from mugs of tea spiked with cloves. Golden light washed through the window. It was so quiet I could hear my own breath.
Do you ever think of that summer? he asked suddenly.
Every day, I answered before I could question myself.
For two days we were inseparable. We strolled through the Museum Gardens, ate fishandchips on New Square, laughed at jokes only those who remembered the fizz of orange soda from glass bottles and the schoolbells call could share.
He never asked how long Id stayed. I never said when I would leave. It felt like a bubblefragile, silent, beautiful, undeniably real.
On the third morning I packed my bag and left it by the door. He handed me a fresh cup of tea and said simply:
Dont go back yet.
But I have responsibilities, a home
He shook his head.
Everything will wait there. Here here is someone who doesnt want to lose you again.
I looked out at the ambertinted trees and thought: perhaps this time I should stay.
I didnt board the train. My bag stayed by the door, and I remained by the window, tea in hand, settled in his chair, inside his world. For a moment shame washed over me, as if Id done something reckless. It faded faster than it had arrived.
I lingered another day, then another, and soon I stopped counting.
Time moved differently in his studio. I helped him sort paints, clean frames, read aloud while he sketched. Suddenly it seemed possible to live simply, lightly, without dissecting everything.
Evenings we wandered the Old Town, together yet apart from the crowds. No one gave us strange looksperhaps because it felt natural, or perhaps because nobody cared whether we were thirty or sixty.
One afternoon I found a small sketch on his table: me, seated by the window, bathed in light. The caption read, Autumn that returned. I said nothing, only brushed the paper with my fingertips and smiled quietly.
I dont know if this will last forever. I have no plans, no questions. All I need is that single momentsomeone said, Stay and I truly heard it.
I had waited forty years for this decision. Now I would not wait any longer.
