Lydia sat at the old oak table in the snug living room, cradling her late husband’s pocket watch. It was weighty, its once-polished silver casing now worn, the glass face cracked. The hands had frozen at half-past four—a time that meant nothing. Or everything. She turned it over in her fingers, as if willing it back to life.
*”What were you hiding, James?”* she whispered, tracing the numerals. *”You never took this off, even when it stopped. Why?”*
James had been gone three months. A heart attack, swift as lightning. Lydia was thirty-two; he’d been thirty-five. They’d only just begun dreaming—children, trips to the Lake District, a cottage garden. But time had stopped. Just like the watch.
With a sigh, she set it down. Sorting his belongings was agony—every jumper, every dog-eared novel brought him rushing back. The watch was the last mystery. James had never explained where it came from. Only ever said, *”It’s important, Lyd.”*
She crossed to the window. Their little house in the Cotswolds was drowning in autumn gold. Neighbourhood children kicked a football about; a distant dog barked. Life marched on. For Lydia, it had stalled.
*”Enough,”* she told herself. *”You’ve got to keep going. For him.”*
—
Lydia wasn’t one to wallow. Before marriage, she’d been a florist in a posh Chelsea shop, crafting bouquets that coaxed smiles from strangers. James used to joke she *”tamed flowers.”* He’d been an engineer—quiet, with a grin that warmed rooms. They’d met by accident: Lydia dropped a potted violet outside a café, and James, passing by, scooped up the pieces.
*”The plant’ll survive,”* he’d said, flashing that grin. *”You, on the other hand, look properly gobsmacked.”*
*”That was my favourite pot!”* she’d huffed—then laughed. His calm was infectious.
A year later, they married. Bought the cottage, adopted a lanky tabby named Marmalade. Planned for a family. But life had other ideas. A year and a half ago, she’d lost their baby at five months. James held her hand through it, wordless, his silence louder than any platitude. They never spoke of that grief. Now *he* was gone.
The watch taunted her from the table. Snatching it up, she headed out. There was an old clockmaker in Oxford James had mentioned once. Maybe he’d have answers.
—
The shop squatted in a crooked alley, its sign reading *”Harrison & Sons: Time Mended.”* Behind the counter sat a whiskered man with a Santa’s chuckle—Alfred, by the brass nameplate.
*”Afternoon,”* Lydia said, laying the watch down. *”It’s stopped. Can you fix it?”*
Alfred perched spectacles on his nose, examining it. *”Hmm. Victorian, this. Fine craftsmanship. Where’d you get it?”*
*”My husband’s. He… treasured it.”*
The old man nodded, as if he understood more than she’d said. Prying open the back, he frowned. *”Blimey. There’s a note in here.”* He tweezed out a folded slip.
Lydia’s breath hitched. *”A note?”*
*”Dunno what it says,”* Alfred admitted, *”but the watch stopped ‘cause the cog’s rusted. I can fix that—take a few days. The note’s yours, though.”*
Hands trembling, she took it. Didn’t unfold it. Not yet.
*”Thank you,”* she murmured, fleeing.
—
Back home, Marmalade twined around her ankles as Lydia stared at the note. Finally, steeling herself, she opened it. James’s tidy script leapt out:
*”To the little one I’ll never meet,*
*I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe. I promised your mum we’d be a proper family, but life had other plans. Funny—I always meant to plant a tree for you. An oak, like the one at my granddad’s farm. He said trees are life carrying on. If you’re reading this, I ran out of time. But your mum will do it for me. She’s strong, my Lyd. Look after her, eh?*
*Love, Dad.”*
Tears splashed the paper. She hugged it to her chest, as if she could squeeze James through the words. He’d written this after their loss—why hadn’t he shown her? To spare her pain? Or to leave this final gift?
*”Always playing the hero,”* she whispered, smiling through tears. *”Alright. I’ll plant your oak.”*
—
Next morning, she drove to a nursery in Burford. She chose a sapling with sturdy limbs. The shopkeeper, a rosy-cheeked woman named Dorothy, eyed her wistful expression.
*”Who’s the tree for, love?”* she asked, bundling the roots in hessian.
*”My son,”* Lydia said softly. *”And my husband.”*
Dorothy’s gaze softened. *”Lovely thing, that. Trees remember for us. My Bert planted an oak every anniversary. Twelve, before he passed. Now I tend ‘em.”*
*”He’s… gone?”*
*”Five years. But I see him in every acorn.”* She patted Lydia’s hand. *”Plant it, dear. It’ll take root.”*
Back home, Lydia shoveled a hole in the garden. Marmalade supervised from the porch, tail flicking approvingly. The soil fought back, but she persisted, imagining James’s chuckle.
*”Oy, neighbour!”* A voice rang over the hedge. Bev from across the lane—fifty-something, always bearing scones or unsolicited advice—was already marching through the gate. *”Need a hand? You’ll do your back in!”*
*”Planting a tree,”* Lydia panted.
*”For who?”* Bev nabbed the spade.
The story tumbled out. Bev listened, tutting. *”Men. Mine was the same—never said a peep, then left me a diamond necklace in his sock drawer. Fancy that!”*
*”Weren’t you cross he kept secrets?”*
*”Bloody livid,”* Bev laughed. *”Then I realised—their love language is *doing*, not blathering. Hold the sapling steady.”*
Together, they nestled the oak into the earth. It stood straight, as if it belonged.
*”There,”* Bev said, brushing dirt off her trousers. *”Now you talk to it. It’s family.”*
For the first time in months, Lydia didn’t feel so alone.
—
When she collected the watch two days later, Alfred grinned. *”Good as new! Oh, and—”* He produced another slip. *”Found this tucked deeper. Bloke really liked hiding notes, didn’t he?”*
This one read:
*”Lyd—if you’re reading this, I cocked up the timing. You’re my clock. Without you, I’d have wound down years ago. Live, love. And find my mate Tom—he’ll explain the rest.”*
*”Tom?”* Lydia frowned.
*”Tall bloke, works at the auto plant near Witney,”* Alfred said. *”Your James’s childhood pal. Came in often, jawing about some project.”*
—
Tom turned out to be a bear of a man with James’s same crinkly-eyed smile. *”Lydia! He talked about you non-stop.”* He scanned the note and nodded. *”Right. Follow me.”*
In his office, he opened a blueprint. *”James’s pet project—a playground for the village kids. Grew up in care, didn’t he? Wanted to give ‘em what he missed. Saved up for years. Asked me to finish it if…”* He trailed off, handing her a sketch. *”Wanted your flowers round it. Said you’d know best.”*
Lydia’s throat tightened. *”He never told me.”*
*”Course not,”* Tom chuckled. *”Bloke bottled everything. But you? You were his whole sky.”*
—
A month later, the playground sprang to life—slide, swings, Lydia’s riot of roses and lavender. At the ribbon-cutting, children’s laughter rang like bells. She stood by her oak, watching.
Bev sidled up, squeezing her shoulder. *”See? He’s not gone. He’s in the leaves. In their giggles.”*
*”And this,”* Lydia murmured, pulling out the watch. It ticked steadily now—not frozen, but moving forward.
Tom and his wife brought Sunday roasts; Dorothy brought saplings; Alfred gifted her a *”lucky”* cuckoo clock. Even Marmalade seemed spAs the oak’s first golden leaves trembled in the breeze, Lydia finally understood—love wasn’t measured in ticks of a clock, but in the roots we plant for others to find.
