He came home just before dawn. The taste of the past still lingered on his lips.
Edward stepped over the threshold in the pale morning light. He’d been gone all night. In the hallway, he found Emily waiting—pale-faced, barefoot in her nightdress, her eyes red from crying.
“Why didn’t you call?” Her voice trembled like a plucked string.
“I couldn’t… I’m sorry,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. He moved past her into the kitchen, mechanically filling the kettle, spooning ground coffee into the press.
He didn’t know how to begin. What could he say? How could he explain that one night had changed something inside him? Would Emily understand? Would she even believe him?
She sat across from him, silent, making no demands. Just waiting.
Edward reached into his pocket and unfolded a neatly folded slip of paper. One glance from his wife, and she knew. A name. Just one word: **“Claire.”** And everything fell into place.
Three years ago. It started on an ordinary Friday.
The workweek was over, and Edward, head of the engineering department at a construction firm, shut the office door behind him with relief. The evening was warm, the air thick with the scent of spring and possibilities. He’d looked forward to a quiet dinner, his children’s laughter, plans for the garden with Emily—his steady, dependable wife. Everything was as it should be. Until one careless glance changed it all.
He saw her.
Fifteen years without a word—and yet he knew her instantly. Claire. His first love. The one who once made his chest burn, his voice catch, his palms go numb.
Memories rushed back: Year Eight, her honey-coloured curls, the shy smiles, the stolen glances. Their first confession. Three years of schoolyard flirtation, a kiss at graduation, promises of forever… And then the cold goodbye: *“I’m getting married. What we had was just childhood.”*
He’d hurt, but life went on. Then came Emily—solid, reliable. With her, he built a home, raised children, settled into routine.
But that reunion… They stood face-to-face on High Street. Claire spoke of some academic conference, of a weekend revisiting their hometown. He nodded, but all he heard was the drumming of his own heart.
In the café, past and present blurred. Claire—successful, beautiful, married. No children yet, but time enough for that. She laughed, brushed his hand—and suddenly, he forgot who he was, where he belonged, who waited for his call.
Then came the hotel room. Champagne. Bittersweet nostalgia. That night, he was a lovesick boy again, kissing her hair, whispering words he’d never said. Claire murmured, *“I never forgot you.”*
But dawn came like a verdict. At the station, she wept; he said nothing. On the train, she left her number—scribbled on a crumpled receipt—then vanished.
Edward returned home at sunrise. Guilty. Lost. His children emerged from their rooms, uneasy, too quiet. He had no words. Only a whisper:
“I’m sorry…”
In the kitchen, silence settled. Emily sat opposite, staring into her thoughts. He pulled out the paper. She saw the name. Her voice cracked:
“So, Edward? You want to go back there? Back to being a boy again?”
He remembered telling her about his schoolyard romance once, lying together under the stars at the cottage. She’d laughed then, but she hadn’t forgotten.
He walked to the window, watching the city awake. Then carefully, he tore the note and let the pieces drop. Turning back, he pulled Emily into his arms. “Forgive me. Never again. I swear.”
She didn’t push him away, but she didn’t lean in.
“Enough, Edward. Childhood’s over. Sort yourself out. I’ll handle my own heart.”
A month passed. They lived side by side, yet apart. He slept on the sofa. The house was heavy with silence. The children whispered as if mourning some unseen loss. And it *was* grief—not death, but something just as final.
Then one morning, Emily set a cup of tea beside him. No words. No explanations. But in that small act, something shifted.
Slowly, she pulled him from the past back into their life.
He never saw Claire again. Didn’t want to. Memories surfaced now and then—gentle, wistful, but no longer painful. Time had dulled the ache. Only a faint bitterness lingered—like black coffee, drunk alone before dawn.
**Lesson learned: The past has its ghosts, but a man’s place is with the living.**
