Eleanor sat at the old oak table in the parlour, cradling her husband’s pocket watch in her palms. Its weight felt familiar—the tarnished silver case, the cracked glass face, frozen at half-past five. A time that meant nothing. Or everything. Her fingers traced the edges, as if willing it back to life.
“What were you hiding, Teddy?” she whispered, staring at the unmoving hands. “You never took these off, even after they broke. Why?”
Edward had been gone three months. A heart attack, swift and merciless as a summer storm. Eleanor was thirty-two; he had been thirty-five. Their dreams—children, travels, a garden behind their cottage—had barely taken root. Now time stood still. Just like the watch.
She exhaled and set it down. Sorting Teddy’s things felt impossible. Every jumper, every book pulled her under. But the watch was the last mystery. He’d never explained where it came from. Only ever said, “It matters, El.” Nothing more.
Eleanor rose and moved to the window. Their cottage in the Cotswolds was drowning in autumn gold. Neighbourhood children kicked a football down the lane; a dog barked in the distance. Life marched on. For her, it had stopped.
“Enough,” she told herself. “You have to keep going. For him.”
—
Eleanor wasn’t one to surrender. Before marriage, she’d been a florist in a London shop, arranging bouquets that made strangers smile. Teddy used to joke she “tamed flowers.” He’d been an engineer—quiet, with warm eyes. They’d met by accident: Eleanor dropping a pot of violets outside a café, Teddy kneeling to gather the shards.
“Don’t fret. The flower’s fine,” he’d said, grinning. “You, on the other hand, look terrified.”
“That was my favourite pot!” she’d snapped—then laughed. His calm was contagious.
A year later, they married. Bought the cottage. Adopted a tabby named Smudge. They dreamed of a child. But fate had other plans. Eighteen months ago, Eleanor lost the baby at five months. Teddy held her hand through it, silent, his quiet louder than any words. They never spoke of the grief. Just carried on. Now he was gone too.
The watch taunted her from the table. Eleanor snatched it up and strode out. There was an old clockmaker in Oxford Teddy had mentioned once. Maybe he held answers.
—
The shop nestled in a narrow alley, its sign reading “Harrison & Sons: Timepieces Restored.” Behind the counter sat an elderly man with bushy brows and a kind smile—Mr. Harrison himself.
“Good afternoon,” Eleanor said, laying the watch before him. “It’s stopped. Can you fix it?”
Mr. Harrison adjusted his spectacles and examined it.
“Ah, a fine piece. Swiss, early 20th century. Where’d you come by it?”
“My husband’s. He… treasured it.”
The old man nodded as if he understood more than she’d said. Carefully, he pried open the back—then frowned.
“There’s something here.” He extracted a folded slip of paper. “A note, it seems.”
Eleanor’s breath caught.
“A note? What note?”
“Dunno. But the watch won’t run—gears are rusted. I can mend it, but it’ll take a few days. The note, though… that’s yours.”
He passed her the yellowed paper. Her hands shook as she took it, but she couldn’t bring herself to unfold it.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll come back.”
—
At home, Eleanor sat with the note for hours. Smudge curled at her feet, purring, but she barely noticed. Finally, she drew a breath and opened it.
The handwriting was Teddy’s—neat, slightly slanted.
*”To the little one I’ll never meet,*
*Forgive me for failing you. I promised your mum we’d be a family, but life had other plans. I always meant to plant a tree for you. An oak, like the one my grandfather had. He said trees are life, carrying on. If you’re reading this, I didn’t get the chance. But Mum will. She’s strong, my El. Look after her, won’t you?*
*Love, Dad.”*
Tears streaked her cheeks. She pressed the note to her chest, as if she could hug Teddy through the words. He’d written this after they’d lost the baby—but never shown her. Why? To spare her pain? Or to leave her this?
“You always did things your way,” she whispered, smiling through tears. “Fine. I’ll plant your oak.”
—
The next morning, Eleanor drove to the nursery. She chose a young oak, its leaves vibrant green. The owner, a silver-haired woman named Margaret, noticed her hesitation.
“Who’s the tree for, love?” she asked, wrapping the roots in burlap.
“My son,” Eleanor said softly. “And my husband.”
Margaret’s eyes warmed.
“Good on you, dear. Trees remember. My late husband planted one every spring. I tend them now.”
“Is he…?”
“Five years gone. But I see him in every leaf.” Margaret patted her hand. “Plant it. It’ll grow.”
Eleanor nodded, something easing in her chest. Back home, she grabbed a spade and dug into the garden’s stubborn earth. Smudge watched from the porch, tail flicking approvingly.
“Blimey, neighbour, what’s all this?”
It was Marge from across the lane—fifty-something, always barging in with pies or unsolicited advice.
“Planting a tree,” Eleanor said, wiping her brow.
“Alone? Let me help!” Marge was already through the gate. “Who’s the oak for?”
Eleanor hesitated, then told her about the note, about Teddy. Marge listened, shaking her head.
“Men, eh? Bottle it all up, then leave you treasures. My late Bert same—once hid anniversary earrings in the biscuit tin!”
“Weren’t you cross he never said?”
“Furious!” Marge laughed. “Then realised—silence is their language. Here, steady the roots.”
Together, they planted the oak. It stood straight, as if it belonged.
“Lovely,” Marge said. “Tend it, El. It’s your lad now.”
For the first time in months, Eleanor didn’t feel so alone.
—
Two days later, she returned to Mr. Harrison’s shop.
“Watch is ticking,” he said, handing it over. “Just needed cleaning. But this…” He produced another slip. “Found inside. Your husband liked hiding things.”
Eleanor unfolded it. Just a few lines:
*”El, if you’re reading this, I never said it enough. You’re my time. Without you, I’d have stopped long ago. Live, my girl. And see my mate Alex—he knows what to do.”*
“Alex?” Eleanor frowned. “Who’s Alex?”
“Ah.” Mr. Harrison smiled. “Alexander Wright. Your Teddy’s old friend—engineer, like him. Works at the factory outside town. Teddy spoke of him often.”
—
The factory was all steel and noise. Alexander—tall, with Teddy’s same kind eyes—recognised her instantly.
“Eleanor? Teddy talked about you non-stop.” He glanced at the note and nodded. “Right. Come with me.”
In his office, he opened a filing cabinet. Inside were blueprints.
“Teddy’s project. A playground for the village kids. He saved for years. Asked me to finish if… well. We’ve got lads ready to build. But we need you.”
“Me?”
“He wanted flowers. Your flowers.”
Eleanor’s vision blurred. He’d planned this. For her.
—
A month later, the playground opened. Swings, slides, benches—everything Teddy envisioned. Eleanor planted borders of lavender and daisies. Villagers gathered, children shrieking with joy.
Marge hugged her as they watched.
“See, love? He’s not gone. He’s right here.”
Eleanor smiled. Teddy was in the oak’s roots, the flowers’ scent, the laughter around her. Alexander and his wife, Kate, became dear friends. Margaret sent saplings; Mr. Harrison gifted a “lucky” alarm clock. Even Smudge seemed brighter, chasing bees in the garden.
One evening, watering the oak, Eleanor looked up at the twilight and whispered,
“Thank you, Teddy. I’m living. And I love you.”
The watch in her pocket ticked on, urging time forward.
