The Last Walk in the Rain
A cold autumn downpour lashed against the muddy road leading to the village of Windridge. Edward Wilson, hunched against the relentless sheets of water, trudged forward stubbornly. Mud clung to his boots, each step a struggle, but he refused to stop. Today, he had to be there—for his Margaret. Finally, through the grey veil of rain, the outline of an old churchyard appeared.
“There’s her birch tree,” Edward whispered, his voice trembling with pain.
He approached the modest gravestone and sank to his knees, barely noticing how the soaked clothes chilled his skin. Rain mingled with tears, streaming down his weathered face. How long he stayed like that, lost in memories, he couldn’t say—but then, footsteps sounded behind him. Edward turned and froze, his heart tightening with surprise.
That morning had been damp and dreary. Edward, wrapped in an old coat, stood at a bus stop in the city. The bus was late, and it grated on his nerves. Nearby, a young woman laughed carelessly, chatting on her phone, oblivious to his scowling expression.
“Could you keep it down?” he snapped, irritation boiling over.
“Sorry,” she replied awkwardly, lowering her phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An uneasy silence settled. Edward felt a flicker of regret—his rudeness stung even him. He cleared his throat.
“Forgive me. I’m not myself today.”
The girl gave him a gentle smile. “It’s fine. This weather puts everyone on edge. But I love autumn rain—smells like the earth breathing.”
Edward said nothing, just nodded. He was never one for small talk with strangers. That had always been Margaret’s role. She handled everything—bills, relatives, even the neighbours. He’d taken her care for granted, never questioning it while she was here. Without her, his world felt barren, like an empty field after harvest.
Unfazed by his silence, the girl continued, “You know, it’s good the bus is late. Gives stragglers a chance. My friend hasn’t made it yet, for instance.”
Edward nearly argued that it was poor comfort for those freezing in the rain, but then Margaret’s face surfaced in his mind. If forty years ago he hadn’t made that bus, their paths might never have crossed. How would her life have gone? Might she have been happier without him?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was like sunshine, her kindness warming everyone around her.
“I never even noticed when she was struggling,” Edward thought, his eyes stinging.
To distract himself, he forced a reply: “You heading to Windridge? Quiet place—not much for young folk.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “My aunt Lucy lives there. Just visiting. You?”
“To my wife,” Edward murmured. “It was her home.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Wilson. Margaret Anne.”
The girl frowned slightly, then shook her head. “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” Edward explained. “Only came back to visit her parents. Once they were gone, she rarely returned.”
He fell silent, lost in memories. Margaret had loved Windridge, always dreamed of them visiting as a family. But Edward had never made the time. Now he had time—but no family left. His son Robert had his own life now, rarely bringing the grandchildren round.
“Oh, there she is!” the girl suddenly exclaimed, waving. “Hurry up, Lily!”
Turning back to Edward, she grinned. “See? Now the bus’ll come.”
Sure enough, the bus rounded the corner. The ride to Windridge took nearly two hours. Edward remembered once, in their youth, when Margaret had missed a bus, and they’d wandered the city streets until midnight. Back then, everything was hope and warmth.
Then came routine. They hardly ever argued—how could you argue with her? Her patience was endless, her kindness unwavering. But Edward had changed, grown complacent, taking her love for granted, never treasuring their moments together.
If he could tell his younger self one word, it would be: “Cherish.”
When the bus rolled into the village, Edward’s pulse quickened. A line from an old book echoed in his mind: “Hell is never again.”
Rain pounded Windridge mercilessly, drumming against the bus roof. Edward heaved himself up.
“My stop.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend hopped out too, huddling under an awning. Seeing where he was headed, she called out:
“Where are you going? There’s nothing there but the churchyard!”
Edward paused, half-turned, but didn’t answer. His eyes said everything. The girl’s face fell, understanding dawning.
The day Margaret left for good had marked Edward like a scar. They’d quarrelled over nothing—he’d shut her out, refusing supper, silent as stone. Margaret, ever patient, tried to mend things, but he stayed cold.
“Just popping to the shop,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d muttered.
She walked out—and he never saw her again. A car struck her at the crossing. In an instant, Edward’s world crumbled, leaving only guilt and emptiness.
Now, he slogged through the mire, numb to the cold. Rain battered his face, but he pressed on, staggering into the churchyard. At Margaret’s grave, he collapsed to his knees.
“There’s your birch tree, my love,” he choked out.
Tears blended with the rain. He lost time, drowning in grief—until footsteps crunched behind him. Edward turned. There stood the girl from the bus stop, drenched but smiling softly, holding out an umbrella.
“Sorry to intrude,” she said softly. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching cold. Come with us—wait out the storm.”
Leaning on her arm, Edward rose unsteadily. She hesitated, then added, “I’m sure she loved you. I’m sure she was happy. And she’d forgive you.”
“Is it that obvious?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replied. “Anyone who’s lost someone knows that. But don’t make her sadder. Be kind to yourself. Come on—you’re soaked.”
Edward listened, hearing Margaret in her words—that same care, that same warmth. Slowly, unsteadily, he stepped forward, toward the light still holding him in this world.
