The Last Walk in the Rain
A cold autumn downpour lashed against the muddy road leading to the village of Willowbrook. Edward Thompson, hunched beneath 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—with his Margaret. At last, through the grey veil of rain, the outlines of the old churchyard emerged.
“There’s her birch tree,” Edward whispered, his voice trembling with grief.
He approached the modest headstone and sank heavily to his knees, barely noticing how his soaked clothes chilled his skin. Rain mingled with tears as they traced the wrinkles on his face. How long he would have stayed there, lost in memories, no one could say. But then, footsteps sounded behind him. Edward turned and froze, his heart tightening with surprise.
That morning had been damp and dreary. Edward, bundled in an old overcoat, stood at the bus stop in town, growing impatient as the bus ran late. Nearby, a young woman laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his glower.
“Must you be so loud?” he snapped, unable to stifle his irritation.
“Sorry,” she replied, flustered. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An awkward silence settled. Edward felt a pang of shame—his rudeness had cut even him. He cleared his throat and muttered, “My apologies. I’m not myself today.”
The girl gave him a gentle smile. “No worries. This weather puts everyone on edge. I actually love autumn rain—it smells like the season itself breathing!”
Edward said nothing, merely nodding. He’d never been one for small talk with strangers. That had always been Margaret’s domain. She handled everything—from bills to family gatherings. He’d taken her care for granted, never imagining life without her. Now, his world felt as barren as a scorched field.
Unfazed by his silence, the girl continued, “You know, the bus being late isn’t so bad. Latecomers still have time. My friend hasn’t even arrived yet.”
Edward nearly retorted that it was cold comfort for those left waiting in the rain, but then he remembered Margaret. Had he not dashed onto that bus forty years ago, their paths might never have crossed. What would her life have been like without him? Happier?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was like sunlight, her kindness warming everyone around her.
“I never even knew when she struggled,” Edward thought, eyes stinging.
To distract himself, he forced a reply. “Are you heading to Willowbrook? Quiet place—not much left for young folk.”
She nodded. “Yes, my great-aunt Olive lives there. I’m visiting her. And you?”
“To my wife,” Edward murmured. “It’s her hometown.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Thompson. Margaret Anne.”
The girl frowned slightly but shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” Edward explained. “Only visited her parents, and after they passed, she rarely returned.”
He fell silent, lost in memories. Margaret had loved Willowbrook, dreamed of bringing the family back more often. But Edward never had time. Now time was all he had—but no family left. Their son, James, had built his own life, rarely bringing the grandchildren.
“Oh, here’s my friend!” The girl waved eagerly. “Over here, Emily!”
She turned back to Edward, grinning. “Now the bus will show up.”
Sure enough, the bus lumbered around the corner. The ride to Willowbrook took nearly two hours. Edward remembered a time, years ago, when Margaret had missed the bus, and they’d wandered the city until midnight—days brimming with hope and warmth.
Then came routine. They seldom argued—it was impossible to stay cross with her. Her patience and kindness knew no bounds. But Edward had changed, treating her love as something owed, never treasuring the moments they shared.
If he could tell his younger self just one word, it would be: “Cherish.”
As the bus rolled into the village, Edward’s heart quickened. A line from an old book echoed in his mind: “Hell is never again.”
Rain still hammered against the bus roof as Edward heaved himself up. “This is my stop.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend followed, sheltering under an awning. Seeing where he was headed, she called out, “Where are you going? That’s just the churchyard!”
Edward paused, turning slightly, but said nothing. His eyes told the whole story. The girl’s gaze dropped in understanding.
The day Margaret left forever had been seared into Edward’s soul. They’d quarrelled over nothing. He’d shut down, refused supper, given her silence. Margaret, ever concerned, had tried to make peace, but he’d stayed cold.
“I’m popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d grunted.
She’d left—and he never saw her again. A car struck her on the crossing. In an instant, Edward’s life collapsed into guilt and emptiness.
Now he slogged through the mud, numb to the cold. Rain lashed his face, but he pushed on until he reached Margaret’s grave. Kneeling, he whispered, “There’s your birch tree, my love.”
Tears poured, merging with the rain. Lost in sorrow, he lost track of time—until footsteps crunched behind him. Edward turned. There stood the girl from the stop, drenched but smiling gently. An umbrella shielded her hand.
“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 slowly. She added, hesitant, “I’m sure she loved you. She’d forgive you.”
“Is it that obvious I blame myself?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replied. “Everyone who’s lost someone knows that. But don’t make her sadder by punishing yourself. Come on—you’re soaked.”
Something in her voice reminded Edward of Margaret—the same warmth, the same care. Slowly, uncertainly, he took a step forward, toward the light still holding him in this world.
