The last meeting in the autumn park
We met again in the very same park where everything began twenty years ago, not by design but by the odd whims of an autumn breeze that seemed to wander the town, turning the pages of forgotten lives.
Edward Blake was strolling down the lane, the path lit by low golden lampposts, a crumpled rail ticket for the evening service tucked in his coat pocket. He was leaving for good, and this walk was his silent farewell to the town that held all his summers, his first loves and youthful mischief.
She was sitting on our bench the one with a chipped corner on the seat and the mysterious initials M + E carved into the backrest. Wrapped in a beige coat, she watched the pond where ducks dabbed at the shore, begging passersby for bits of bread.
Edward stopped, and his heart made that old, forgotten motion not a thump, but a slow swing, like a pendulum measuring time backwards. He would have recognised her among a thousand others not by the polished, slightly weary look she now wore, but by the tilt of her head, by the way she clasped her hands on her knees.
Ethel? he croaked, his voice hoarse and strange.
She turned, not startled but as if shed been waiting for the name. Her greygreen eyes widened.
Edward? My God Edward, she whispered.
He sat down beside her, keeping a respectable gap between them a distance that could easily hold two decades. The air smelled of damp leaves, faint smoke and expensive perfume not the sweet, reckless scents of their youth.
What are you doing here? they asked together, almost in unison, and laughed awkwardly.
It turned out she had just taken a walk after a lecture at the nearby university. He, on the other hand, was saying goodbye.
A pause settled, comfortable and heavy all at once.
Do you remember, she began, staring at the water, how we first met here? You were on a skateboard and almost knocked me over.
I didnt just almost, I actually knocked you over, Edward grinned. You landed straight in a puddle, and instead of apologising I started shouting that youd broken my board.
And I wasnt crying because of ruined tights, but because you were so badly behaved, Ethel shook her head, a little smile creasing the corners of her eyes, and those creases looked to him more beautiful than any jewellery. Then the next day you showed up with a box of Squirrel chocolates.
We sat on that bench until night fell, Edward finished softly.
Memory flickered like an old projector, throwing bright, slightly faded frames onto the screen of the present. Young and foolish, they roasted sausages over a campfire with friends; she, covered in soot, fed him with a fork while he pretended to bite his own finger. They sprinted through a sudden downpour after a film premiere, drenched to the bone, shouting with joy. He gave her a silver ring set with a tiny sapphire for her birthday, spending all his summer earnings, and she clutched it to her lips, weeping.
Now they talked about all that, the words flowing easily as if those years hadnt been buried under routine, disappointment and adult lives.
Do you remember how we fought over where to study? Ethel asked. You wanted to go to London, I couldnt leave because of Mum.
I was a complete fool, Edward whispered. I said if you love someone, youll go to the ends of the earth for them.
And I said if you love someone, youll understand, she sighed. We were so young and so sure that love was this grand, fantastical force that could solve everything. It turned out to be as fragile as the first layer of ice on that pond.
Silence fell. A maple tossed another handful of leaves into the air, spiralling in a slow, farewell waltz.
Is everything alright with you? he asked, already knowing the answer. All right isnt the right word for either of us. She had a family, a job; he ran his own firm in another city, with its own worries. Everything was normal, proper, ordinary. Not good in the way two twentyyearold lovers on that bench would have meant it.
Yes, she replied, and he read the same in her eyes. Alls well.
He slipped his hand into his coat, clenched the ticket that tiny slip of paper separating him from the town, from the park, from her.
Do you know, he said, extending his hand, I still remember the scent of your hair. Not perfume, just hair a mix of applescented shampoo and summer sun.
Ethels eyes glittered.
I remember your whistle. You had that special twofinger trill, whistling as you approached my flat, and Id sprint out onto the balcony like a madwoman.
He tried to whistle now; it came out weak and unsure. The skill was gone. Both smiled again, this time with a sharp, tender sadness.
It was time to go. They rose from the bench together, as if by habit.
Goodbye, Edward, she said.
Goodbye, Ethel.
They didnt hug, didnt plant a kiss on the cheek. They walked away down opposite ends of the lane, just as they had twenty years before, only then theyd thought theyd meet again tomorrow. Now, never again.
Edward reached the parks exit and turned. Ethel was already a distant silhouette melting into dusk. He pulled the ticket from his pocket, stared at the blurred letters and numbers, then, slowly, deliberately, tore it into pieces and dropped them into a waste bin.
He wasnt carrying the weight of that ticket away. He left it where it belonged, and stepped forward into the cold of the approaching night, taking with him only the faint, sweet memory of applescented shampoo.
Beyond the park gates, city noise crashed over him the hum of traffic, sharp horns, hurried footsteps. The air smelled of petrol and the greasy aroma from a kebab stall on the corner. Edward buttoned his coat and aimlessly turned toward the railway station, though his train no longer waited.
He walked familiar streets, each corner now a page from the book theyd once written together. The old Riverside cinema where theyd hidden from sudden rain to share a kiss. The former cosy café where Ethel first tasted Turkish coffee and grimaced, It tastes like bitter earth. He smiled. The shop window now bore the sign of a big bank.
The thought of returning, finding her, saying what? That all those years hed been chasing her reflection in strangers faces? That no success ever smelled as sweet as her shampoo? It would be madness. They were grownup people with duties, schedules, biographies that no longer matched.
Meanwhile, Ethel moved to another bench a short way away. She watched the wind chase the last wilted leaves across the water and thought how strange life was. Two decades an entire life built with another man, a grown son, a defended dissertation, a steady routine could fade in ten minutes of a chance conversation.
She recalled his steady, slightly testing gaze, the one that once made her breath catch, the gaze that saw not a respected lecturer but the girl on a skateboard, drenched and wildly happy.
A sharp, almost physical urge rose in her to leap up, run after him, ask, What if? But her legs wouldnt obey. They were used to measured steps, predictable routes. She knew the way home to her husband, who was probably already wondering why shed lingered.
Gathering her thoughts, she rose and walked toward the university where her car waited, not looking back at the pond, the bench, the ghosts of their youth.
Edward arrived at the station. The huge timetable board flashed the names of cities that held no one waiting for him. He approached the ticket office.
Where to, sir? the weary clerk asked.
Edward glanced at her, then at his hands that, half an hour ago, had clenched that useless ticket.
Nowhere, he whispered. Ive already arrived.
He turned and walked away from the station. He didnt know what tomorrow would bring. Perhaps a job here, a small flat overlooking the park, or maybe just a few more days breathing the autumn air.
He no longer sought another meeting with her. That meeting had already happened. It had shaken him, reminded him of who he truly was beneath years of contracts and compromises.
For the first time in ages, he had nowhere to rush. He was simply Edward, a man who once loved Ethel. And that, oddly enough, was enough on that evening. The past could not be reclaimed, but one could stop running from it. In that pause lay a strange, bittersweet, healing freedom.
He walked the empty evening streets, and the city no longer felt like a museum of his losses. The streetlamps lit not as nostalgic garlands but as simple guides forward. He felt a light emptiness, as if space in his soul had been cleared for something new. The past finally let go not with the slam of a door, but with a quiet, relieved sigh. In that silence, something genuinely his began to unfold.
