**A Seaside Town**
Evening settled over the little coastal town. Autumn wasn’t quite noticeable yet, though the holidaymakers had thinned out. William was the sort who disliked beach crowds and scorching heat, which was why he’d chosen October for his seaside trip. The air was still warm enough for swimming, but the nights were cool and fresh. There was another reason he’d come here, too.
He walked slowly, eyes scanning the street names on the houses. He had imagined arriving and instantly recognising everything, but nothing felt familiar. At the house he sought, he stopped, pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, and checked the address again. It was correct—the same, yet where a modest single-story cottage once stood, there was now a two-story house with a pointed roof. Through the wrought-iron fence, he could see a well-tended garden filled with lemon, persimmon, and apple trees.
William slid the sports bag off his shoulder, set it at his feet, and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. Deeper in the garden, a woman was unhanging laundry from the line. He watched her from behind. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman bent to pick up the laundry basket and turned to leave. William drew a breath and called out.
“Excuse me! Do you rent rooms?”
She turned, squinting as she studied his face, then approached the gate. Up close, he saw his mistake—she was about his own age.
“You’re looking for a room?” she asked.
“Yes. Some friends stayed here in the summer—said I should ask for you,” he lied.
“You’re cutting it fine. The season’s nearly over.”
“Perfect for me. Can’t stand the heat,” William said with a smile. “So, do you have a room?”
“Plenty free,” she replied, setting the basket down and unlatching the gate. “Come through—the door’s open.”
He hoisted his bag and walked past her.
“Go on in,” she urged when he hesitated at the threshold.
The entrance hall was spacious, doubling as a sitting room—clean, bright, and cosy, nothing like the cramped space he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you,” she said.
The steps creaked faintly under his weight. There hadn’t been an upstairs before. Was this even the right place?
“Door on the right,” she directed. “How long are you staying? Not that it matters. The bathroom’s next door—shared between three rooms, but you’ll have it to yourself.”
The room was small but comfortable, with a view of the sea and a crimson sunset.
“Like something out of a fairy tale,” William murmured before he could stop himself.
“Your friends told you the rate? Off-season, it’s less. Meals are separate.”
“Suits me fine,” he said, turning to smile at her. “What should I call you?”
“Alice. And you?”
“Wi—William,” he stumbled.
*Alice. Could it really be her? How she’s changed. What did I expect—that forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time changes everything. She doesn’t recognise me,* he thought, watching her.
“Ever stayed here before?” Alice asked, as if reading his mind. “The way you looked just now…”
“Never been in this house,” he said, glancing around again.
“Will you be joining me for supper?”
“If it’s no trouble,” he said, searching her face for traces of the past.
“None at all. Come down in twenty minutes.” She left.
William sank onto the bed—soft but with no telltale creak. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a cramped little room. No upper floor then.
*She doesn’t know me. Why would she? Forty years is a long time. Probably forgot I existed. Put on weight, aged—wouldn’t recognise her on the street now. Oh, Alice, so much water under the bridge…*
***
He’d come with two friends to this seaside town that summer. His Natalie was supposed to join them, but they’d fought just before the trip. He’d caught her with an older man, flown into a jealous rage, and she’d refused to go. Heartbroken, he nearly stayed behind—what was a holiday when his world had collapsed?
But his mate convinced him to get away, heal. They’d all shared one room, him squeezed in with his friend and the lad’s girlfriend, Emma. Awkward. He’d wander the promenade late, giving them space, and even on the beach kept his distance.
That’s how he met Alice. She swam alone, far from the crowds, moving through the water like she belonged there. “Local,” she’d said when he asked where she stayed. “Just back for the holidays—helping Mum with the garden.”
“Mind if I walk you?” He’d scrambled for his clothes.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Course. Most do here—winter’s lean. You needing somewhere?”
“Got a place, but… sharing with a couple. Bit crowded.”
“Move in with us, then. I’ll ask Mum.”
He’d agreed without even seeing the room. Tiny, pricier—his friends were furious, begged him to stay.
“Got my reasons,” was all he’d said, and they’d dropped it.
Two weeks flew. Barely thought of Natalie—why would he, with Alice smiling at him like that? Back then, he’d almost believed he loved her.
Once, he overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger. “Be careful,” she’d warned. But every night, they’d meet by the sea, lie on the sand under the stars, kissing till dawn tinged the hills pink.
They’d swapped numbers at the station, promised to meet—London wasn’t so far from Manchester. She’d run alongside the train, waving. He’d nearly jumped out to stay.
The whole journey, he’d lain facing the wall, aching for the warm sea, for Alice, plotting their next meeting. It felt possible then. But passion’s promises rarely last.
Natalie came crawling back as soon as he returned. “Only wanted to make you jealous,” she’d said, twisting a new ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. I’m done.”
“Want me to throw it away?” She’d tugged at the ring.
Then term started. He and Alice wrote at first, even planned to meet, but he kept putting it off. Then he married someone else.
That summer became a hazy, golden memory, fading with each year. Holidays later meant Spain, the Lakes, or his in-laws’ cottage. Then divorce… So many “then’s” he’d lost count.
Now retired, alone—no wife, no kids. He’d thought coming back might turn back time, just for a moment. But the town had changed. So had he. So had Alice.
***
Twenty minutes later, he was eating a hearty supper. Alice poured homemade wine—heady stuff that left him drowsy. The beach walk could wait till morning. Upstairs, clean sheets smelled of lavender and salt air.
At breakfast, the table was set, but Alice was out. He walked the promenade barefoot, trousers rolled, wading in the shallows—too chilly for a proper swim.
Over lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“I’m not. My daughter’s in York. Grandkids stayed all summer—back at New Year’s. Son-in-law fixed up the house, added the upstairs.”
“Your husband?”
She changed the subject. He offered to help with chores; she refused. Left to his own devices, he napped fitfully, staring at the ceiling.
*What am I doing here? Should’ve booked elsewhere, seen her from a distance. Who turns up after forty years unannounced? Could her daughter be mine? Possible. But even if—I wasn’t there. Didn’t raise her, buy toys. She’s grown. What use am I now? Bloody stupid thoughts…*
Sometimes Alice watched him closely. Then he’d panic—*Does she know?*—and escape to the sea.
*Coward. Always was. Just ask her, talk. What’s the worst she’ll say?* But he kept postponing it.
Then it was time to leave. Rain set in; the sea churned grey. Autumn had arrived.
Alice packed him preserves, fruit, a fresh-baked cake. Shame burned in him—forty years ago, he’d spun her dreams, then vanished. Now he’d turnedHe never boarded the train to see her again, but kept the jam jars lined on his shelf, each one a sweet, unopened reminder of the life he might have had.
