Emma sat at the old oak table in the living room, cradling her husband’s pocket watch in her hands. It was heavy, its silver casing worn and the glass cracked. The hands had frozen at half past five—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, staring at the face. “You carried this everywhere, even after it broke. Why?”
James had died three months ago. A heart attack, sudden as lightning. Emma was thirty-two; he’d been thirty-five. They’d only just begun dreaming of their future—children, holidays, a little garden behind their cottage. But time had stopped. Just like the watch.
Emma sighed and set it aside. She’d meant to sort through his things, but every jumper, every book brought him back. The watch was the last mystery. James had never explained where it came from. Only ever said, “It’s important, Em.” That was all.
She stood and walked to the window. Their cottage on the outskirts of York was drowning in autumn leaves. Neighbourhood children kicked a football down the lane, and somewhere a dog barked. Life went on, but for Emma, it had ground to a halt.
“Enough,” she told herself. “You have to keep going. For him.”
—
Emma wasn’t one to give up easily. Before marriage, she’d worked as a florist in a city shop, arranging bouquets that made people smile. James used to tease that she “tamed flowers.” He’d been an engineer, quiet but with warm eyes. They’d met by chance—Emma dropped a pot of violets outside a café, and James, passing by, helped gather the pieces.
“Don’t worry, the plant’ll survive,” he’d said, grinning. “You, on the other hand, look shocked.”
“That was my favourite pot!” she’d protested, but then laughed. His calm was infectious.
That was how their story began. A year later, they married, bought the cottage, and adopted a tabby named Smudge. They dreamed of children. But fate had other plans. A year and a half ago, Emma lost their baby at five months. James stayed by her side, holding her hand, saying nothing—yet his silence spoke louder than words. They never spoke of that pain; they just carried on. And now he was gone too.
The watch lay on the table, a reminder of the unspoken. Emma picked it up and stepped outside. There was an old clockmaker in town James had once mentioned. Maybe he could tell her what was wrong with it.
—
The clockmaker’s shop sat tucked down a narrow alley. The sign read, “Time & Tides: Repairs.” Behind the counter sat an old man with bushy brows and a kind smile—Mr. Thompson.
“Afternoon,” Emma said, setting the watch down. “It’s stopped. Can you fix it?”
Mr. Thompson adjusted his spectacles and peered at it.
“Hmm, an antique,” he murmured. “Swiss, early 1900s. Where’d you get it?”
“My husband’s. He… treasured it.”
The old man nodded, as if understanding more than she’d said. He carefully popped open the back and frowned.
“Something here,” he said, extracting a folded slip of paper. “Looks like a note.”
Emma froze.
“A note? What note?”
“Dunno,” Mr. Thompson shrugged. “But the watch stopped ‘cause the mechanism’s rusted. Can fix it, but it’ll take a few days. The note… that’s yours.”
He handed her the yellowed paper. Emma took it with trembling hands but couldn’t bring herself to unfold it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll come back for the watch later.”
—
At home, Emma sat with the note for ages. Smudge curled around her ankles, purring, but she barely noticed. Finally, she took a breath and unfolded it. The handwriting was James’s—neat, with a slight slant.
*”To the little one I’ll never meet.*
*Sorry I couldn’t protect you. I promised your mum we’d be a family, but life had other ideas. You know, I always wanted to plant a tree for you. An oak, like the one in my grandad’s garden. He used to say a tree is life carrying on. If you’re reading this, I didn’t get the chance. But Mum will do it for me. She’s strong, my Em. Look after her, yeah?*
*Love, Dad.”*
Tears streaked Emma’s cheeks. She clutched the note to her chest, as if she could hug James through the words. He’d written this after their loss but never shown her. Why? To spare her pain? Or to leave her hope?
“You always did things your way,” she whispered, smiling through tears. “Fine. I’ll plant your oak.”
—
The next day, Emma drove to a nursery. She chose a young oak with vibrant green leaves. The seller, an elderly woman named Margaret, noticed her distant gaze.
“Who’s the tree for?” she asked, wrapping the roots in burlap.
“For my son,” Emma said softly. “And my husband.”
Margaret gave her a gentle look.
“Lovely thought, dear. A tree’s a living memory. My late husband loved oaks. Planted one every spring till he couldn’t. Now I tend them.”
“And he’s… gone?” Emma asked.
“Five years now. But I see him in every leaf.” Margaret smiled. “You plant it, love. It’ll take root.”
Emma nodded, warmth blooming in her chest. Back home, she grabbed a spade and started digging in the garden. Smudge watched from the porch, as if approving. The soil was tough, but Emma kept at it, imagining James smiling down at her.
As she worked, a voice called over the fence:
“Oi, neighbour, what’s all this?”
It was Linda from across the lane—fifty-something, always turning up with pies or advice, wanted or not.
“Planting a tree,” Emma said, wiping her brow.
“On your own? Let me help!” Linda was already at the gate, ignoring protests. “Don’t want you throwing your back out. Who’s the oak for?”
Emma hesitated, then shared the note and James’s wish. Linda listened, shaking her head.
“Men, eh? Silent as graves, then leave you treasures. My late Bert was the same. Held everything in, then—bam!—surprise. Once bought me earrings hid in his sock drawer.”
“Weren’t you cross he never said?” Emma asked, lowering the oak into the hole.
“Furious,” Linda laughed. “Then I realised: they stay quiet ‘cause they love. Words ain’t their language. Hold it steady—water it now.”
Together, they filled the hole and patted the earth. The oak stood straight, as if it belonged.
“Beautiful,” Linda said. “Now tend to it, Em. It’s your little one now.”
Emma smiled. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel so alone.
—
Two days later, Emma returned to the clockmaker. Mr. Thompson greeted her with a grin.
“Watch is ticking,” he said, handing it over. “Just needed cleaning. But this…” He produced another slip. “Found inside. Your husband liked hiding notes.”
Emma unfolded it. Just a few lines:
*”Em, if you’re reading this, I didn’t say it in time. You’re my time. Without you, I’d have stopped long ago. Live, love. And see my mate Will—he knows what’s next.”*
“Will?” Emma frowned. “Which Will?”
“Think I know,” Mr. Thompson said. “William Carter—your James’s old friend. Engineer, like him. Works at the factory outside town. James spoke of him often.”
Emma thanked him and left, gripping the watch. She remembered James mentioning Will—a childhood friend from uni. But after their wedding, they’d drifted apart. Why had James written about him?
—
The next day, Emma found the factory where Will worked. He was tall, with kind eyes like James’s. Seeing her, he knew at once who she was.
“Emma?” He smiled. “James talked about you all the time. Sorry I missed the funeral. Was overseas.”
“It’s alright,” she said. “I found this.” She showed him the note.
Will read it and nodded.
“Classic James. Always keeping secrets. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led her to a small office where blueprints and files covered a desk.
“James’s project,” Will explained. “Wanted to build a playground for the village kids. Like the one he grew up with. You know he was in care, yeah?”
Emma nodded, though James had rarely spoken of it.
“He saved up,” Will continued. “Asked me to finish it if… well. Got the lads at the factory on board. But we need your touch. You’re the florist, right? James wanted flowers round theEmma planted wild roses around the playground, their petals blooming as the children’s laughter filled the air, and though her heart still ached, she knew James’s love lived on in every blossom, every tick of the watch, every rustle of the oak’s leaves.
