There is no joy in solitude.
Regina Whitmore, no longer young but with a sparkle in her eyes, washed her teacup after breakfast, brewed her coffee unhurriedly, and glanced through the window.
“Year after year, the same old routine,” she often thought. “The clock, the windowpane, the open book on the sill—and solitude. How I miss my husband, who left me alone so soon.”
Ten years had passed since she buried her beloved spouse. The pain had dulled with time, but loneliness was harder to shake. At first, she had felt his presence beside her, but gradually, even that faded. She once remarked to herself, “The ones we love don’t just leave the house—they fade quietly from the soul, in time.”
Lately, the weight of solitude pressed harder. She had even begun to consider finding another lonely soul, scanning the world with quiet appraisal. “Perhaps there’s someone like me out there,” she mused, and in those thoughts, her loneliness would ease for a moment, replaced by images of shared evenings, a tender melody in her weary heart.
She had long noticed the retired colonel who lived in the next building. Her friend Alice shared a landing with him, and Alice’s husband, Harold, often went fishing with the stern old soldier.
Alice had spoken of him often. “His name is Edward, you know—widowed, just like you. He has a daughter, but she lives far away. A serious man, but Harold gets on with him famously. You should take a closer look, Regina. Why walk hand in hand with loneliness when you could have company?”
“I don’t know, Alice,” Regina would sigh. “How could I approach him first? A woman of my upbringing—former professor of literature, mind you—doesn’t make the first move.” She was elegant, well-read, not the sort to chase after men.
Edward Spencer was indeed a retired colonel—tall, lean, silver-haired, with spectacles perched on his nose. He walked with the stiff precision of a man who had spent decades in uniform. Yet there was something intriguing about him. Regina always watched discreetly when he passed by, nodding when he offered his usual, “Good health to you.”
She sometimes tried to meet his gaze with meaning, but he remained unreadable. The elderly ladies who gathered on the benches outside often whispered about him. If he walked past, the chatter grew lively.
“I heard he suffered a head injury in service,” one would say.
“Nonsense,” another would counter. “My son said his eyes were strained from years of using optical devices—that’s why he wears spectacles.”
A third would add with a knowing look, “I’ve heard there’s trouble with his manhood—that’s why he pays no mind to women.”
The gossip swirled endlessly. Perhaps because he was alone, and the women were many. Regina found herself thinking of him too.
“What does a man like him do in solitude? Read, perhaps? Or watch war films? I do enjoy a good war film—that could be something we share. I love poetry as well, the kind tinged with melancholy.” She would recite under her breath:
*”The dusk falls. A chill, a fine rain.
Few passersby in the alleyway.
I expect no one. You will not come.”*
She sighed. “Perhaps I love such verses because I’ve been alone so long—or perhaps I’m simply sentimental.”
Then, the phone rang, startling her from her book. Alice’s voice bubbled through the line.
“Regina, darling! What are you up to? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re curled up with a book, aren’t you?”
“You know me too well,” Regina laughed. “What else is there to do in the evenings?”
“Well, Harold and I are planning something—that’s why I called. You *have* forgotten my birthday tomorrow, haven’t you?”
“Oh, Alice, forgive me!” Regina flushed. “What a scatterbrain I am.”
“Never mind,” Alice chuckled. “Come over tomorrow. We’re having a few friends—just a little gathering.”
The next evening, Regina studied herself in the mirror, noting the fine lines around her eyes, the slight droop of age. “Elegance has its own season,” she told her reflection with a smile.
When she arrived, the house was lively. And there, to her delight, was Colonel Spencer.
“Come, sit by Edward,” Alice said, guiding her to the chair beside him.
The evening unfolded with laughter and toasts. Harold was a natural host, full of stories. On the other side of Edward sat Theresa, a plump, cheerful widow who lived next door to Alice. Theresa had long set her sights on the colonel, often plying him with her famous shepherd’s pies. He accepted politely but said little.
Regina noticed Theresa’s lingering glances, felt a twinge in her chest, then dismissed it.
Music played. Some danced. Regina waited, hoping Edward might ask her. But Theresa was already tugging at his sleeve, and reluctantly, he stood.
The slow melody wrapped around them. Regina tried not to watch, but her eyes betrayed her. Theresa clung to him—or so it seemed.
When the dance ended, Edward returned to her side, his thigh brushing hers. She startled, met his warm brown eyes. Her heart lurched. It had been so long since a man’s touch unsettled her.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered back.
Another song began. Before Theresa could claim him, Edward stood, offered his hand. “May I?”
Her pulse quickened as he led her onto the floor. His hands were firm, his steps precise. He held her close, whispered compliments that made her cheeks flush.
*How strong his arms are. That smile—I’ve never seen him smile like this.*
She forgot the room, the guests—there was only them. And then she caught Theresa’s glare.
*”Look at her, twisting in his arms,”* Theresa seethed. *”As if she’s something special. He never looked at* me *like that.”*
Edward noticed none of it. His soul was alight, a warmth he thought long extinguished. *I believed I’d turned to stone. And yet—here I am, alive again.*
As the evening wound down, he guided Regina toward the door. “Shall I see you home?”
Outside, the night was fragrant with blooming lilacs.
“Perhaps a stroll?” he suggested.
*How did he know?* She nodded, delighted.
They walked long, until he escorted her to her door. Then, to her own surprise, she invited him in.
Back at Alice’s, the host and hostess exchanged knowing glances. “Still some fire in the old colonel yet,” Harold mused. “All those women whispering he was half-dead—ha!”
Regina and Edward lived contentedly after that, strolling arm in arm most evenings. The only one displeased was Theresa.
For the colonel, it turned out, was neither cold nor broken—but tender, and very much in love.
