The icy wind cut through the air like needles, but Edgar felt nothing. His heart had turned to a frozen lump, colder than any winter storm. He stood in the snow-covered park, wrapped in the dim glow of evening, desperately scanning the passersby for that small figure in a bright crimson snowsuit. Alfie. His grandson.
To Edgar, the boy had become his entire world. Clutching his phone, he cursed the moment he’d been distracted by an urgent business call. Just one moment of carelessness—now his chest ached with fear and guilt. He blamed himself mercilessly, every fibre of his sturdy frame consumed by regret.
A single, pounding refrain filled his mind: “I’ll lose him.” The past year had been a string of unbearable losses. First, his wife had slipped away, quietly, as if fading beneath the weight of illness. Then came the terrible news from the Alps—his daughter and son-in-law, Alfie’s parents, had perished there.
That solemn-eyed boy with his tender smile was all that remained of Edgar’s past. His last anchor. The thought of losing him choked the breath from Edgar’s lungs. He clung to Alfie like a drowning man to driftwood. Without him, life was unimaginable.
Panic surged. He shouted, his voice raw:
“Alfie! Alfie, where are you?”
Only silence answered, broken by the whistling wind and swirling snow. Passersby shot him disapproving glances—to them, he was just a careless old man who’d lost his grandchild. None knew the pain behind his cry.
Then, as hope dwindled, a thin, frightened yell—from the direction of the river. Edgar stilled. It was Alfie’s voice. A cry that turned his blood to ice.
Without thought, he bolted toward the bank. He knew the river’s treachery. The ice seemed solid, but hidden beneath the powdery snow lay perilous gaps. And there, in the dark, churning water, thrashed a small figure in crimson. Alfie.
Edgar’s heart plummeted. He ran, stumbling through drifts, gasping for air. The distance felt impossible. He watched his grandson struggle, weighed down by sodden clothes. He knew—he wouldn’t make it. But just as despair threatened to swallow him, a shadow darted forward. A woman.
She moved with feral speed, barely keeping to the ice. Sliding, stretching, she reached the gap. With one strong motion, she hauled Alfie onto the ice, dragging him to safety.
Edgar snatched the boy, crushed him tightly. Alfie trembled, weeping. Without a word, Edgar barked at the woman:
“Follow me. Home. Warm up.”
She obeyed.
In the car, wrapped in Edgar’s coat, Alfie slowly calmed. A doctor examined him—all would be well. At home, Edgar tucked the boy into bed, then stepped into the kitchen where the woman waited, small and worn in an old dressing gown, pain etched deep in her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked, handing her tea.
“Anne.”
“Thank you. You saved my grandson. My only treasure. You can’t imagine what that means.”
He tried to press money into her hands. She pulled away.
“It was nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
Edgar saw the truth in her words. No greed, no cunning—just exhaustion and sorrow.
“Perhaps you need work?” he asked gently. “I own a pub. Could use a kitchen hand. Small wage, but steady. If you’re willing—I’d be glad.”
Anne looked up, tears welling.
“Thank you… Yes, I accept.”
Weeks passed swiftly. Edgar juggled Alfie and work—but more often, his gaze lingered on Anne. She scrubbed and chopped with quiet precision, sometimes offering advice to the cooks, as though she’d spent a lifetime in kitchens.
Then came the crisis: a high-ranking official booked a banquet with impossible demands. For the pub, a chance to rise. For Edgar, a risk that could ruin him.
And then he saw it—Anne’s skill ran deeper than cleaning. She stepped in, reorganised the chaos, proposed solutions. The banquet? A triumph.
Edgar realised: she wasn’t just a helper. She was someone who’d sought a second chance—and found it here, in this unexpected family.
One evening, he took Anne’s hand—cold, yet alive beneath his touch.
“Annie… Marry me. I love you.”
She shook, tears spilling.
“Edgar… I love you too. But I can’t. I’m an ex-convict. A blemish on your name. You deserve better.”
Days later, Edgar drove her to the city’s edge—to a derelict building she recognised instantly. Her old tearoom, stolen by her husband, then sold off.
But now, it gleamed. Fresh paint, polished windows, a glowing sign above the door:
“Alfie’s.”
She whispered, trembling, “What is this?”
Edgar smiled. “I couldn’t marry a penniless woman—what would the other publicans say? So I levelled the field.” He opened a velvet box—a diamond ring inside. “Now, Mrs. Landlady, I, Mr. Landlord, formally ask for your hand. As equals.”
Anne, laughing through tears, held out her finger. As the ring slid on, she understood: her life, like her tearoom, had been reborn from ashes. Where all seemed lost, love had bloomed. And justice, at last, had prevailed.
