The Last Walk in the Rain
A bitter autumn storm lashed against the muddy path winding toward the village of Witheridge. James Whitaker, hunched beneath the relentless downpour, trudged forward without pause. The clay clung to his boots, each step a struggle, but he pressed on. Today, he had to be there—with his Margaret. At last, the silhouette of the old churchyard emerged through the grey veil of rain.
“There’s her hawthorn,” James murmured, his voice breaking.
He approached the humble headstone and sank to his knees, numb to the icy weight of his soaked coat. The rain mingled with his tears, tracing the deep lines of his face. How long he might have stayed there, lost in memory, he couldn’t say—but then footsteps crunched behind him.
James turned, breath catching in his throat.
The morning had been damp and dismal. Wrapped in his tattered overcoat, James had stood at the bus stop in town, gritting his teeth as the minutes slipped by. A young woman nearby laughed into her phone, oblivious to his scowl.
“Keep it down,” he snapped, unable to stifle his irritation.
“Sorry,” she faltered, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An uneasy silence settled. James coughed, suddenly ashamed of his sharpness.
“Bad day,” he muttered.
The girl smiled gently. “It’s the weather. Gets to everyone. But I love autumn rain—smells like the earth breathing.”
James said nothing. He’d never been one for small talk. That had always been Margaret’s domain—she handled the bills, the relatives, the unspoken weight of their shared life. He’d taken it all for granted, never questioning it, until she was gone. Without her, the world felt barren, like a field after harvest.
Unfazed by his silence, the girl went on.
“Maybe the bus is late for a reason. Gives stragglers a chance. My friend isn’t here yet.”
James nearly retorted that it was cold comfort for those left waiting—but then he thought of Margaret. If he hadn’t caught that bus forty years ago, their paths might never have crossed. Would she have been happier?
Margaret had always found light in the darkest days. Her smile was sunlight itself; her kindness warmed everyone around her.
“I never even noticed when she was hurting,” James thought, his eyes stinging.
To distract himself, he spoke.
“You heading to Witheridge? Quiet place. No young folk stay long.”
She nodded. “Visiting my aunt. What about you?”
“To my wife. It was her home.”
“What was her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Whitaker. Margaret Louise.”
The girl frowned, then shook her head.
“She moved to the city when we married,” James explained. “Only went back to visit her parents. After they passed…”
He trailed off, lost in the past. Margaret had loved Witheridge. She’d begged him to return more often, but he never had the time. Now time was all he had. Their son, Thomas, lived his own life now—no grandchildren to bring home.
“There’s my friend!” The girl waved. “Over here, Liv!”
She turned back to James, grinning.
“See? Now the bus is coming.”
Sure enough, the bus rounded the corner. The ride to Witheridge took nearly two hours. James remembered a night, long ago, when Margaret had missed the last bus, and they’d wandered the city streets till dawn—a time thick with hope and warmth.
Then came the years of routine. They rarely fought—how could anyone fight with Margaret? Her patience was bottomless. But James had changed, grown complacent, blind to the moments they shared.
If he could whisper one thing to his younger self, it would be: “Treasure her.”
As the bus rolled into the village, his pulse quickened. A line from a book flickered in his mind: *Hell is the knowledge of ‘never again.’*
Rain still hammered on the roof as James stood.
“This is me.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend hurried under an awning. When she saw where he was heading, she called out:
“Wait—there’s nothing that way but the churchyard!”
James turned. His eyes told the whole story.
The day Margaret left him forever had been unremarkable—until it wasn’t. They’d quarrelled over nothing. He’d shut her out, refused supper, drowned in silence. Margaret, ever patient, had tried to bridge the gap.
“I’m popping to the shops,” she’d said, wiping her eyes. “Need anything?”
“No.”
She left—and never came back. A car at the crossing. One moment, and James’ world collapsed into guilt and silence.
Now, he moved through the sodden earth like a ghost. Reaching Margaret’s grave, he fell to his knees.
“There’s your hawthorn, love,” he whispered, choking on grief.
The rain and tears blurred together. He might have drowned there—but footsteps sounded behind him.
The girl from the bus stood there, drenched but smiling. An umbrella trembled in her hand.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said softly. “But she wouldn’t want you catching your death. Come with us—wait out the storm.”
James let her help him up.
“I’m sure she loved you,” the girl pressed. “And she’d forgive you.”
“Is it that obvious?” he rasped.
“Guilt walks with grief,” she replied. “But don’t make her sadder than she is. Keep yourself warm. Come on—you’re soaked.”
Something in her voice—that kindness—reminded him of Margaret. Slowly, unsteadily, James followed her toward the light, toward the fragile warmth still left in the world.
