**Under the Rain of Solitude**
James’ wife, Eleanor, had started acting strangely. One day, she flew into a rage over nothing, accusing him of every sin under the sun—leaving dishes unwashed, socks in the wrong place, forgetting tasks she claimed she’d reminded him of endlessly. She was sick of cleaning up after him, she said. And worst of all—he couldn’t even afford a new car. James began to suspect the problem wasn’t him. Her sudden obsession with the gym, the new wardrobe—it wasn’t for him. And then Eleanor left him for another man.
A year passed. One morning, James woke to the sound of the doorbell. He threw on his dressing gown, shuffled to the hallway, and opened the door—only to freeze in disbelief.
A heavy grey cloud crept over the clear sky, as if an invisible hand were painting it in sombre strokes. Fat raindrops drummed against the windscreen as James drove through the streets of the historic riverside town of Winchester. The rain grew heavier with each passing minute, the wind howling louder. Inside the car, the heater hummed, the radio played softly—but beyond the glass, a cold melancholy reigned, seeping into his bones.
The streets were deserted, only the occasional car speeding past, growing fewer by the minute. How many laps had he done around town already? The house felt unbearable, so he’d walked straight to his car. Driving helped him think—sorting through his life like a puzzle missing its key pieces. He turned onto a narrow lane, distancing himself from the city centre, from the home still haunted by the past.
A week ago, Eleanor had returned. Her reappearance ripped open old wounds, dredging up pain he’d buried. She thought her tears would melt his heart, that he’d forgive her betrayal and forget the insults. When she’d left, she’d poured scorn over him—branding him a failure, a worthless man. Could that ever be erased?
A year ago, she’d picked a fight over nothing. Screamed that she was tired of his mess, his broken promises, his inability to give her the life she wanted. *”Four years without a holiday abroad! Two years without a single trip to the coast!”* she’d spat in his face. *”I’m leaving for someone who can give me all of that!”* James had already suspected her sudden gym obsession and new dresses weren’t for him. At home, she wore old pyjamas, barefaced—yet outside, she glowed. He didn’t stop her. The heartbreak had nearly killed him, but he’d survived. Drank with mates, let loose, then pulled himself together. Eventually, the pain dulled.
At work, women perked up when they heard he was single. They didn’t need lavish gifts or exotic getaways—just a decent man by their side. And James was a catch: fit, financially stable, no ex-wife demanding alimony. But none of them stirred him. He wasn’t against love—he just felt no spark. Even his friends drifted; their wives wary that a free James might tempt their husbands astray. He visited them, but always returned to an empty flat where no one waited.
They’d never had children. James hadn’t dwelled on it—these things took time. Eleanor had even been tested; the doctors said everything was fine. But during the divorce, she’d lashed out: *”You’re useless! You couldn’t even pick a wife who could give you children!”* That one had cut deep. And yet—had she stayed, he might have forgiven her. But she left.
A year later, the doorbell rang. James opened it—and there she stood. Eleanor, tear-streaked, begging forgiveness. *”I made a mistake,”* she whispered. *”I love you.”* He told her he forgave her—but forgetting was impossible. How could he take back the woman who’d walked out for another man, only to return once she’d been cast aside? *”Would you have taken me back if I’d left?”* he asked. Silence. As she walked away, he told her to collect her things and disappear from his life. *”I’ve nowhere to go,”* she murmured. *”What about your mum’s place in Cornwall?”* he replied.
That evening, much like tonight, he’d driven until exhaustion took him. He decided: if she was home when he returned, he’d try again. After all, he knew her, had grown used to her. But the flat was empty. James wasn’t disappointed. He realised in that moment—it wouldn’t have worked. She’d returned out of desperation, and the moment she found someone better, she’d vanish again. How could he ever trust her?
The rain intensified, the wipers struggling against the downpour. James drove on, lost in silent debate with himself. One more lap, a quick stop for petrol, then home. At a red light, his gaze caught on a figure beneath a tree. The spring leaves offered no shelter from the storm—she was drenched, staring into nothing. The light turned green, yet she didn’t move. Waiting for someone? Or, like him once, simply with nowhere to go?
James drove past—then reversed. He rolled down the window. *”Need a lift?”* She didn’t react. *”I can’t stop here long,”* he urged. Slowly, she turned. Rain or tears on her face? She shuffled forward and slid into the passenger seat. Her lips trembled—no smile reached them. *”The upholstery’ll get soaked,”* James thought, switching on the seat warmer.
She brushed wet hair from her face, tugging her sodden dress over her knees. *”Tissues in the glovebox,”* he said, pulling away. She wiped her face. Silence. *”Where to?”* he finally asked. *”Nowhere,”* she murmured, her voice soft but hollow. *”Well, this is awkward,”* he thought. *”Actually, the station,”* she added. *”Running from your husband? Off to your mum’s? Where’s your luggage?”* She blinked, surprised. *”Husband left two years ago. Mum’s gone—heart attack, six months after he walked out. Friends… vanished when I needed money. Now they call, but they’re scared I’ll ask again. I don’t need it now.”*
James fell silent, uneasy. *”Your daughter—she recover?”* he guessed. *”No. Sold the house for treatment in Switzerland. It didn’t save her.”* Her eyes were dry, but endless sorrow lived there. *”How old?”* *”Thirteen tomorrow. I bought us tickets to the coast—she dreamed of it. Wanted her to fight.”* *”You still have them?”* *”Yes. Morning train.”* James said nothing. What could he say? He had everything—a home, a job, his health. She’d lost her child, her house, everyone. How was she even standing?
*”No kids myself,”* he admitted. *”Ex-wife got pregnant by someone else when we were young. Had an abortion. Told me during the divorce—just to hurt me. Called me a failure. Left me for a rich bloke.”* *”Coffee?”* he offered, spotting a petrol station. *”I’m starving, and you could use the warmth.”* She shrugged.
In the café, they sat in silence—two coffees, a plate of scones. A man at the next table stared. James shifted, blocking his view. *”Toilet?”* she asked. He pointed her to the sign. When she returned, he noticed her hair was dry now—fluffy, dark. Early thirties, he guessed. Slim, delicate features. In the rain, she’d looked older. *”Emily loved crisps,”* she said suddenly. *”When she stopped eating them, I knew it was the end.”* *”How’d you survive that?”* James blurted. *”I didn’t. There’s nothing left inside.”*
They drove on. She smelled of rain and faint flowers—unlike Eleanor’s cloying perfume that used to give him headaches. This woman sat quiet, as if fading into the air. *”The vicar said souls stay near for forty days,”* she murmured. *”I feel her. Her breath. Sometimes she calls to me in dreams. Do you think she’ll come with me? Emily wanted to see the sea.”* James pictured her on the train, a thin girl beside her. *”What will you do there? No clothes, no—”* *”I’ll buy some. It doesn’t matter.”* *”But you’ll have to come back. The grief won’t leave. Need money? I can—”* *”No, thank you,”* she said, holding his gaze for the first time.
The station loomed ahead. *”I’m James. You?”* *”Catherine. My mum called me Kate.”* He pulled over. *”Can’t park here long. Sure you’re going?”* he checked. *”There’s a lounge area—like a hotel. Get some rest. Here.”* He pressed notes into her hand. *”He watched her disappear into the station, the weight of her sorrow lingering in the car like the scent of rain.
