Emily and George met by chance—on a beach where the August sun blazed, mingling with the salty breeze and the scent of sunscreen. She was tall, elegant, with thick chestnut hair and a radiant smile that caught his eye instantly. He approached her, and from that moment, they were inseparable. The holiday ended, but their story had only just begun.
George lived in a nearby town. For five years, they spent weekends together—weekdays were for work and responsibilities, but weekends meant his countryside cottage, apples from the orchard, warm tea, and fresh pastries from the local bakery. Emily often visited him; his place felt freer, cozier. She lived with her son, while George was alone in the flat left by his parents. He was legally divorced—or so he claimed when things grew serious. She believed him, even insisted: “Finalize the divorce by tomorrow.” And he did. For her.
Five years passed. Emily’s son married and moved out, leaving her alone. Weekday evenings grew lonelier, but George’s cottage remained their sanctuary—the quiet orchard, a basket of apples, steaming tea on the veranda.
That evening was like any other. The air was warm, sliced apples sat in a bowl, fresh buns cooled on the table, and laughter filled the room. Then—the phone rang. George answered. At first, Emily paid no mind, but the call dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Half an hour.
Then she recognised the voice. His ex-wife.
Thoughts stormed her mind. They still lived in the same town… They shared a daughter… Had he been seeing her all this time? Had he hidden meetings, conversations?
She couldn’t hold back. When he finally hung up, she erupted—accusations, hurt, pent-up resentment spilling out. George stayed silent. Then he stood abruptly, knocking his chair back.
“Leave,” he said quietly, and walked out.
Dazed, she packed her things—not heading for the station, but to his flat. She still had the keys. She cooked dinner, cleaned up. He returned past midnight. Distant, cold. Not even his usual greeting. She stayed anyway. For three days, she tried to melt the silence, to please, to mend. He ignored her. Didn’t send her away, but wasn’t there either.
So she left. But come the weekend, she returned.
He opened the door.
“Hi, George. I came to say… There’s someone else. A widower. I don’t know where it’s going yet. But… be happy.”
And she walked away.
George stood frozen. He couldn’t believe it. The woman he’d rebuilt his life for—now gone, leaving him as lonely as he’d been before her.
And so it went. Even the brightest love can shatter from a single doubt, one unanswered question, an old wound left untended. Because the past never truly fades—not if you carry it with you. Sooner or later, it pulls you back. And takes everything.
