**The Pink Scarf**
Valerie buried her husband two years ago. He had been seventeen years older than her, and she was only twenty-nine when they met.
She had never been popular with men. Shy and home-loving, she avoided clubs and rowdy gatherings. In school and university, boys saw her as a friend—someone to copy homework from or borrow lecture notes from. They dated pretty, lively girls unburdened by old-fashioned morals.
She met Edward on the street one warm May day, when the cherry blossoms bloomed and the fresh green leaves shimmered under a generous sun. Valerie had decided to walk home, drinking in the lovely spring weather, squinting at the bright light, smiling at strangers for no reason.
Then she saw him—tall, handsome, wearing an unbuttoned black coat. As they passed each other, he smiled and said,
“Lovely weather, isn’t it? Almost like summer. And here I am in a coat.” His voice was deep and pleasant.
“Why not take it off, then?” Valerie replied with a laugh.
He shrugged off the coat at once, draping it over his arm. For some reason, she didn’t walk away—just stood there, mesmerised.
“You’re right, much better. Fancy an ice cream?” Before she could answer, he dashed to a nearby kiosk. Valerie almost left, but it would’ve been rude.
He returned with a caramel swirl waffle cone.
“Oh! My favourite,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Because it’s mine too,” he replied.
They strolled side by side, eating ice cream and talking about everything. She got home later than usual, too full for dinner.
“Your eyes are sparkling,” her mother remarked, squinting. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing,” Valerie said, flushing for no reason.
Edward called the next day, inviting her out.
“It’s raining,” she said glumly. “I didn’t bring an umbrella.”
“Doesn’t matter—we’ll go to the cinema. Where do you work? I’ll pick you up.”
On the way, she learned his wife had died a year earlier—a heart condition, doctors had warned her against childbirth.
“I loved her deeply. Not having children never bothered me. I doted on her, protected her. After she died, I barely survived. Thought I’d spend my days alone. But then I saw you… Valerie, you—”
“—It’s Valerie,” she corrected.
“You remind me of her. Not in looks, but in spirit. There’s a purity in your eyes. You’re unspoilt by modern influences. That’s rare these days.”
When Valerie came home from work the next evening, Edward was drinking tea with her mother in the kitchen—a bouquet of roses on the table.
“Darling, we’ve been having such a lovely chat,” her mother said sweetly, flashing pointed glances: *Don’t be a fool.*
Edward was charming—well-dressed, distinguished by his silver-streaked hair. Her mother approved, mentally tallying his flat, car, and respectable salary. No children? Even better—no need to win over stepchildren. Valerie could have her own.
“Mum, I’ve known him a week! You’re planning my life already!” Valerie protested. “He’s nice, but I don’t love him.”
“Love fades. Marriages built on sense last longest. With him, you’ll be safe. You’re not a girl dreaming of romance—he’s reliable, respectable.”
As he left, Edward asked Valerie to walk him to his car.
“Tomorrow, I’d like you and your mother to visit. See how I live. But let’s be clear—if you want children, I’ll understand. But I’m too old for sleepless nights and nappies.”
At least he was honest. She never brought it up again.
Life with him was steady. Colleagues envied her—young husbands strayed, but Edward drove her to work, picked her up. Her mother called it a winning ticket. Grandchildren would’ve been nice, but life isn’t perfect.
Valerie never regretted marrying him. They had respect, trust, stability—no small things in a marriage.
Then one evening, he came home, ate dinner, lay down to rest. She tiptoed around, not wanting to disturb him. When she realised something was wrong, it was too late.
They had three years together. She mourned him sincerely.
Afterwards, she drifted through routine. Her mother’s urgings to “move on” grated. A child alone? *From whom?*
Edward hadn’t liked her dressing boldly or wearing makeup.
“Why? You’re married. Only women fishing for attention do that.”
She packed away her old clothes, wore dull shades, pulled her hair back—aging herself prematurely.
Then, one April day, unseasonably warm, the trees lush, birds singing, sunlight melting even the coldest hearts—Valerie spotted the pink scarf. How had it survived among her drab dresses? She tied it around her neck.
Rush-hour buses were crammed. She edged toward the exit when suddenly—the scarf snagged, tightening around her throat. People shoved; she tugged, but it only constricted further. Fighting against the crowd, she stumbled back, elbowed and cursed—until she saw the scarf hooked on a stranger’s bag zip.
“Careful! You’ll tear it!” she snapped.
The doors closed; the bus lurched forward.
“Now I’ve missed my stop—thanks to you!”
“Me? Dress like that, you should take taxis,” he shot back, yanking the scarf. “What, a gift from dear departed hubby?”
They bickered until the next stop, disembarking together. He freed the scarf effortlessly.
“Thanks,” she muttered. “Now I’ve a walk ahead.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Don’t bother. Your mother must be waiting.”
“She’s dead. Fifteen when it happened. Dad remarried; I rent a flat,” he said, falling into step beside her.
“I’m sorry. My husband’s gone too. And no, he didn’t buy this. I did, back in uni.”
“Funny it got stuck on *my* bag,” he smirked. “Fate. Dozens of people, and it chose me.”
She stopped, indignant. “Don’t be ridiculous. Coincidence, not fate.”
“Shame you think that. I’m Jake—or Jay, if you like. And you?”
She didn’t answer, turning into her building. At the door, she glanced back—he was still there, waving.
At home, she scolded herself. *Perfectly nice, and you acted like a child.* The next day, she scanned the bus stop, hoping to apologise.
A week later, rain poured as she trudged home, avoiding puddles. Jay blocked her path at the doorstep.
“Stalking me?” She shook out her umbrella.
“Just wanted to see you.”
She searched for mockery—found none. His gaze was bold, serious.
“Since I’m your *fate*—fancy a cuppa? I’m soaked waiting.” He sneezed theatrically, lips quirking, suddenly boyish.
She let him in. Over tea, he explained he was finishing his medical residency—once dreamed of the army, like his brother, but changed paths after his mother’s death. Valerie listened, imagining nurses and patients swooning over him—and felt a jealous pang.
He returned the next evening, pulling her into his arms the moment she opened the door.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you… Waited all day…” His breath scorched her neck.
She pushed at his chest, but her legs betrayed her, heart hammering. She clung to him to keep from falling.
With Edward, intimacy had been dutiful, silent, lights off. She never knew it could be like this—melting under Jay’s kisses, dizzy with desire.
“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he rasped.
She didn’t.
After, she lay awake, replaying every touch. By morning, she barely recognised herself—buying jeans, mascara, wearing her hair loose. Everyone noticed the change.
She felt like a girl again, racing to the door at his knock, lost in his arms.
Logic whispered it wouldn’t last. They were from different worlds.
Then one evening, Jay arrived sombre.
“What’s wrong?”
“Residency’s over.”
“That’s good!”
“Got an offer—top hospital.”
“Let’s celebrate!” She fetched wine.
“It’s in London. What about you?”
“What *about* me?” She forced a smile.
“I’ll send for you.”
She cupped his face. “Why?”
She waited for *I love you*, *I can’t leave you*—just for a second, she let herself imagine it. He said nothing.
At the station, they clung together, oblivious to stares. As the train pulled away, he shouted,
“I’ll call every day! I’ll come back!”
At home, she drew theShe kept the scarf as a reminder that sometimes, even the most unexpected twists can weave a new beginning.
