There’s Still Work to Be Done at Home… Granny Val trudged through the front gate, struggling with the rusty old lock before stepping into her chilly, long-empty cottage, the cold stove her only companion as she settled on a creaky chair. The air was tinged with neglect; three short months away, and the cobwebbed ceilings, groaning floorboards, and angry wind through the chimney greeted her, the house demanding to know where its mistress had vanished. “Just a moment, my dear, I’ll catch my breath and light the stove soon…” Not so long ago, Val was lively and bustling, painting and scrubbing, fetching water, tending the garden, moving nimbly between housework and prayer, her presence breathing life into the old home. The house loved her back—doors swung open at the first touch, the stove baked golden pies, and everything felt right when Val was in charge. She’d outlived her husband and worked hard to raise three children: one son a ship’s captain, the other a colonel, both now living far away, seldom visiting. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed in the village as chief agronomist, popping in at weekends with pies and love, but always whisked away by her duties. The light of Val’s life became her granddaughter Svetlana, a local beauty with shining hair and a city diploma, who returned to work as an economist and, with her new vet husband, received a solid brick house through a social scheme. But Svetlana wasn’t suited to gardening, and life with a small son, Vasya, and little time for anything else, soon saw her begging Val to move in. Reluctant but aging, Val agreed, only to find herself chided for doing little to help. Rejected, she returned alone to her empty cottage, her body slowing, and her heart heavy with guilt for disappointing beloved Svetlana. The village priest, Father Boris, checked in, finding Val battling the cold, scraping by, writing brave letters to her sons—each page declaring how well she was, though the smudged ink betrayed tears. Anna, a neighbor, stepped in to help, while Father Boris brought food, chopped wood, and made sure Val had warmth and company. Tragedy struck when Svetlana, never robust, was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed within six months. Her bereft husband turned to drink and the cemetery, little Vasya neglected until Tamara took him, only to see internment in a boarding school as her only option. It was then that Val, now nearly housebound, insisted Vasya come live with her—“As long as I draw breath, he won’t go to an orphanage.” Against all odds, she found new life in caring for her great-grandson, her energy returning, the once-quiet cottage filled again with warmth, music, and baking. Neighbors gossiped, yet Father Boris discovered Val not feeble and frail, but bustling with renewed purpose as she tended to young Vasya. Reflecting on these turns, Father Boris’s wife, Alexandra, recalled her own great-grandmother Vera Yegorovna, who delayed death itself to help her newborn great-grandchild, declaring as in the old song, “It’s too soon for me to die—there’s still work to be done at home!” Vera lived another ten years, nurturing the generations that followed, her spirit an enduring legacy of love and resilience. And so, in Granny Val’s humble English cottage, as in Vera’s, the truth was plain: there’s still work to be done at home, and always another reason to carry on.

Author Wanda MirandaReading 10 minViews 2

There are still things to be done at home…

Grandma Mildred struggles to open the gate, limping to the front door, fumbling with the old, rusted lock before finally stepping into her chilly, unlived-in cottage. She lowers herself onto a chair beside the cold hearth.

The cottage carries that hollow scent of vacancy. Shes only been away for three months, yet the ceiling is heavy with cobwebs, the ancient chair emits a forlorn creak, and the wind howls down the chimney. The house greets her with a sullen mood: where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me to? How will we get through the winter?

Just a minute, my dear house, let me catch my breath” she whispers. “Ill get the fire going, well be warm soon

Just a year ago, Grandma Mildred would briskly move through the old cottage: whitening the walls, painting over chips, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before faded portraits, tended the hearth, darted across the garden, always managing to sow, weed, and water her beloved plants.

The cottage thrived under her care. The floorboards joined in with her quick, light footsteps, doors and windows swung open at the touch of her tired hands, the oven rewarded her with perfectly baked pies. It was a happy partnership: Mildred and her timeless cottage.

She lost her husband early on. Raised three children alone, ensuring each one had a good education and prospects. One son became a merchant navy captain, another a colonel, both living far off, rarely visiting.

Only the youngest, her daughter Mary, stayed in the village, now the head agronomist, constantly swamped with work. Every Sunday, Mary would pop by, savour Mildreds pies, and then seven more days would pass before seeing her again.

Her solace is her granddaughter, Sophie, who was practically raised by Mildred.

And what a young woman Sophie has become! Stunning, with big grey eyes, thick gleaming hair the shade of ripe barley flowing down her back, shining with a life of its own. When she ties it back, stray curls tumble over her shoulders, sending every young man in the village into a trance, literally gaping in awe. Such poise and beauty from a village girl!

Mildred was certainly a beauty in her youth, but when comparing an old black-and-white photo with Sophie, its like shepherdess and sovereign.

Clever, too. Sophie completed her degree in agricultural economics in Oxford, then returned to the village to work as an economist. She married a local vet, and, thanks to a government scheme for young families, they moved into a brand-new house.

And what a house! Solid, brick-built, the sort people would call a manor, not just a home.

The only thing: around Grannys cottage is a lush gardeneverything blooms and grows. Yet, at Sophies new house, just three tiny shoots have managed to appear. Honestly, Sophie was never really cut out for gardening, despite her rural rootsalways a gentle soul, shielded from wind and rough chores by Grandmas care.

Then little Oliver was born. Now theres certainly no time for flowerbeds or vegetable plots.

Sophie starts inviting Grandma to live with them: Come on, come on, move in with usthe house is spacious, theres central heating, no need to light fires.

But Mildred, now eighty, finds herself slowing down just as a round birthday comes. Suddenly, her legs, once fleet and strong, barely carry her across the floor. Mildred finally agrees.

She stays with Sophie for a few months. But then comes the conversation:

Grandma, dearest, you know I love you! But why do you just sit there? Youve always worked, kept busy, but now at my house, youre always resting I want to start my own farm, I need your help

I cant, darling, my legs dont work anymore Im old

Huh Funny how you got old the moment you moved here

Soon enough, unable to meet expectations, Mildred is sent homeback to her tiny cottage.

The disappointment of not being able to help her beloved granddaughter takes its toll, and Mildred becomes truly unwell.

Her feet drag across the icy floor; even getting from bed to table is a Herculean task, and making it to the church is entirely out of reach.

Father George, the village vicar, pays a visit to his once-diligent parishioner. He surveys the cool, musty cottage.

Mildred sits at the table, busy with her usual monthly letters to her sons. The ovens warmth barely takes the edge off. The floor is like ice. Shes wrapped in a faded thick jumper, with a slightly grubby scarf quite the difference for someone known for her immaculate housekeeping and worn slippers.

Father George sighs: she really does need help. Who could he ask? Perhaps Margaret nearbytwenty-odd years younger and still as strong as an ox.

He brings out some bread, biscuits, and half a still-warm fish pie, courtesy of his wife, Alexandra. Rolling up his sleeves, he clears out the ashes from the hearth, brings in plenty of logsenough for several firesand gets the oven blazing. He draws water and sets a large sooty kettle to boil.

Sonny, oh! I mean, Father dear! Help me with these addresses on the envelopes, would you? If I use my chicken-scratch, the letters wont arrive!

Father George sits down, neatly writes the addresses, and glances at the quavering script inside. In bold, shaky letters he reads, Im living well, my dear boy. I want for nothing, thank the Lord!

Yet the pages about Mildreds happy life are stained with smudgesclearly, these are salty marks.

Margaret starts looking after Mildred, Father George regularly offers confession and communion, and on big feast days, her husband Pete, a retired sailor, ferries Mildred to church on his old motorbike. Slowly, life begins to settle again.

Sophie does not visit, and a couple of years later, she falls gravely ill. Shed always had trouble with her stomach, but never thought more of it.

It turns out to be lung cancer. No one knows why. Sophie fades in just six months.

Her husband moves to the cemetery, drinking himself into oblivion by her grave, sleeping there, then waking to buy another bottle. Four-year-old Oliver is left filthy, sniffling, and hungryno one to care for him.

Mary, busy as ever with her work as head agronomist, takes him in but her job keeps her late every day, so soon arrangements are made for Oliver to go to a county boarding school.

The school is excellentan energetic headmaster, hearty meals, and weekends spent at home when possible.

Not quite a family upbringing, but Mary has little choice; retirement is still beyond the horizon and every day is a struggle.

One day, Grandma Mildred is delivered to Marys door in the sidecar of Petes old Norton, Pete himself looking like a proper old sailor in his striped vest, with anchors tattooed on his brawny arms. Both look determined and fierce.

Mildred states simply, Ill take Oliver in.

Mum, you can barely walk! How will you cope with a child? He needs food, a bath, clean clothes!

As long as Im breathing, Olivers not going into care, she insists.

Stunned into silence by the steeliness of gentle Mildred, Mary begins packing up Olivers things.

Uncle Pete delivers both the elderly woman and the boy back to the cottage, almost carrying them inside. The neighbours shake their heads:

Lovely old gal, Mildred, but must have lost her marbles in her ageshe can barely care for herself, let alone a child! Hes not a puppy he needs real looking after. Whats Mary thinking?

After Sunday service, Father George visits Mildred, half-expecting to find a starving and filthy Oliver dumped on a frail old woman.

Instead, the cottage is warm, the hearth ablaze. Clean, contented Oliver sits on the sofa, listening to the story of The Gingerbread Man on a record player.

And theres the frail, ailing old lady, fluttering about the kitchenbrushing egg wash over baking trays, kneading dough, beating eggs into the curd. Her old, aching legs now seem quick and livelyas if shed never been ill.

Father dear! Im just making some cheese buns Wait a bittherell be a little treat hot from the oven for Alexandra and little Tom

Father George returns home astonished, recounting the scene to his wife.

Alexandra thinks for a moment, then pulls out her old blue notebook, flips through the pages, and finds what shes after:

Old Mrs. Egerton lived to a ripe old age. Everything passeddreams, feelings, hopesall sleep beneath a gentle white snowdrift. Its time, time to go where there is no illness, nor sadness, nor sighing. One blustery February evening, Mrs. Egerton prayed for a long time before her keepsakes, then lay down and told the family, Call the vicarIll soon be gone.

Her face became white as the snow outside.

The family fetched the vicar. Mrs. Egerton confessed, took communion, and then for a day and night had neither food nor drink. Only the faintest breath proved that her spirit still remained.

Suddenly, the hallway door flung open: a cold blast of air, a babys cry.

Hush, hush, Gran is dying.

I cant stop a baby from cryingshes just been born and doesnt know yet to keep quiet

Mrs. Egertons granddaughter, Alice, returned from hospital with a squalling infant. By morning, everyone was out at work, leaving dying Mrs. Egerton and the young mother alone. With little milk and no confidence, the new mum struggled as the wailing babe disturbed Mrs. Egertons final peace.

Yet the dying woman lifted her head, her distant eyes finding focus. With difficulty, she swung her feet to the floor, searching for her slippers.

When the family rushed home, fearing the worst, they found Mrs. Egerton not nearly dead, but brighter than everpacing the room, calmly rocking her now peaceful grandchild, while Alice, exhausted, finally dozed on the sofa.

Alexandra closed her journal, smiled at her husband and finished:

My great-grandmother, Vera Egerton, adored me so much, she just couldnt bear to leave. In her words, Its not my time yettheres still work to be done at home!

She lived another ten years after that, helping my motheryour mother-in-law, Anastasia Mayto raise me, her favourite great-grandchild.

Father George smiles back at his wife.

The Secret of the Old Postcard Three days before a yellowed envelope arrived to change her life, Natalie Sokolov stood on the balcony of her London flat. The night was dense and dark, with no stars to be seen. The lights of Regent Street glimmered below. Inside, beyond the glass doors, Mark was on speakerphone, negotiating the finer points of yet another deal. Natalie pressed her palm against the cold glass. She was exhausted—not by work (she had always excelled at that), but by the very air around her. The predictability suffocated her, as if even Mark’s proposal had been scheduled into a five-year plan. An ache of longing—or perhaps mute rage—clung to her throat. Pulling out her phone, Natalie opened the messenger and typed to an old mate she hadn’t seen in ages. Her friend had just had her second baby, submerged in the happy chaos of family life. The message was little more than a sigh: “You know, I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what real rain smells like. Not this city drizzle, but the kind that hits the earth—smelling of dust and hope. I want a small miracle. Something simple, something you can hold in your hands.” She never sent it—deleted the words in a heartbeat. Her friend wouldn’t have understood, would’ve thought she was having a crisis, or had too much wine. A minute later, she was back with Mark, who wrapped up his call and glanced at her. “Everything alright? You look tired.” “Fine,” Natalie said with a smile. “Just needed some fresh air.” “In December?” He grinned. “Go to Brighton in May, if we hit our targets this quarter.” He turned back to his screen. Natalie’s phone flashed—a client confirming a meeting. No miracles. She sighed and mentally ran through tomorrow’s to-do list as she readied for bed. *** Three days later, sorting the post, her finger caught on the corner of an envelope she didn’t recognise. It fell to the floor: thick, rough parchment, yellowed with age, bearing no stamp—just an old ink stamp of a holly branch and her address. Inside, a New Year’s card. Not glossy shopbought, but warm, embossed cardboard, sparkling with gold dust that scattered on her hands. “May the new year bring your boldest dreams to life…” read the handwriting that made Natalie’s heart skip. She recognised the script. It was Alex’s—her childhood sweetheart from a sleepy Cotswolds village. Summers at her Gran’s cottage, first love, riverside dens, fireworks in August, and notes exchanged from school to school. But Gran had sold the house, they’d grown up and lost touch, each swept to different corners of the UK. Her own address, yet dated 1999. A Royal Mail hiccup? An answer from the universe to her silent plea for a simple, tangible miracle? In a flash, Natalie cancelled her meetings—told Mark she needed to scope a location for a client—got in her car. To the Cotswolds, three hours away, to find the sender. Google suggested there was a small letterpress workshop in the village. *** She expected a souvenir shop—cluttered, bright, thick with candle smell. Instead, she stepped into quiet: air sweet and heavy with wood, ink, and something bitter, maybe old varnish. A real stove puffed warmth into the room. The owner stood at a workbench, tinkering with a hulking, antique press. His back to her, sleeves rolled, solid, calm. “Is this your card?” Natalie laid it on the counter. He took a moment, wiping his hands on his trousers before lifting the card to the light as though it were a rare coin. “Yes,” he said, voice steady. “That’s our holly stamp. 1999. Where did you find it?” “It arrived yesterday, in London. Must be a postal error. I need to find the sender. I know the handwriting.” He looked at her—polished haircut, designer but out-of-place camel coat, tiredness she couldn’t quite hide. No curiosity, just patient waiting. “Why does it matter? It’s a generation gone. People get born, die, forget.” “I’m not dead,” Natalie snapped, surprised at her own fierceness. “And I haven’t forgotten.” Watching her quietly, the man gestured toward a kettle in the corner. “You’re frozen. Tea might thaw you out. Even for Londoners.” He poured them mugs with chipped handles, no further questions. *** Three days in the old village felt like stepping out of time—out of the rush of London, into the hush where even snow falling from the eaves made itself heard. From screens to glowing embers, from bustle to the light of memory. The man, Alex (the printmaker, not her childhood Alex), didn’t press for stories. He simply shared his world. He lived alone in the family home, creaking floors, the sweet scent of jam, and timeworn books. He showed her engraved copper plates, explained how they mixed glitter, how his father had once mailed a card of love that never arrived. “Love sent into emptiness,” he said, eyes on the fire. “Beautiful. Hopeless.” “Do you believe in hopeless love?” Natalie asked. “My dad found her eventually. They lived together for years. If it’s real, anything’s possible. As for the rest—I only believe in what I can hold. This press. This house. My craft. The rest is smoke.” No bitterness—just a craftsman accepting the grain of his material. Natalie, always used to fighting her surroundings, found the stillness here impossible to resist. The snow fell when it wanted. The printmaker’s dog napped where it pleased. A strange closeness bloomed: two lonely souls seeing each other clearly. He didn’t see her as a high-flying city girl, she didn’t see him as stuck in the past, but as a keeper—of time, of tradition, of silence. Her anxiety, constant in the city, faded in his presence. The day Mark called, Natalie stood by the window watching the printmaker, Alex, chopping wood in the snowy yard—each log splitting with crisp, satisfying regularity. “Where are you?” Mark’s voice was cold as ever. “Pick up a real tree on your way back—the fake one broke. Fitting, isn’t it?” Natalie looked at the real tree sparkling in the living room. The old glass ornaments. “Yes,” she whispered. “Very fitting.” And hung up. *** The truth surfaced on New Year’s Eve. Alex found an old sketch in his father’s album—the original wording from the mystery card. “It wasn’t your Alex,” he said quietly. “It was my dad. To my mum. The card never arrived. History loves going in circles.” The magic scattered like glitter: no mystical connection, just fate’s twist. Her go-back-in-time fantasy was a beautiful misreading. “I should go,” Natalie murmured. “I’ve got… everything. Wedding. Contracts.” Alex nodded. He didn’t try to hold her back—only stood amid his universe of paper and memory. A man who preserved warmth inside envelopes, powerless against the cold of another world. “I understand,” he said. “I’m not a magician. Just a printmaker. I make things you can hold, not castles in the air. But sometimes… the past doesn’t send us a ghost, but a mirror. So we see who we might have been.” He turned back to his press. Natalie clutched her bag, keys, her phone—her only link to the city, to cover calls, KPIs, and a comfortable, quiet marriage to a man who measured everything in money. She’d reached the door when her eye landed on another card, fresh from the press. The same holly stamp, but a new message: “May you find courage.” Natalie understood. The miracle wasn’t in the card from the past. The miracle was in this moment. In the power to choose. To see the path. She couldn’t stay in his world—but she wasn’t going back to Mark’s. She walked out into the cold, starry English night, never looking back. *** A year passed. December in London again. Natalie never returned to the events industry. She left Mark, launched a boutique agency focused on “thoughtful” events—warm, intimate, attentive to detail. She uses paper invites, printed in a small workshop in the Cotswolds. Her life is still fast but now purposeful. She’s learning the art of silence. The “Snowflake” workshop hosts creative weekends. Alex finally accepts online orders, carefully chosen. His cards are more popular, but the craft is unchanged. They don’t write often, only for work. But last week, Natalie received a card in the post. This time, stamped with a flying bird, it read simply, “Thank you for your courage.”

Love Isn’t for Show Annie stepped out of the cottage with a full bucket of pig feed, her face stormy as she passed her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the old well for three days running. He’d decided he wanted it carved and fancy—beautiful, as though he had nothing better to do! She bustled about looking after house and livestock while he stood with a chisel in hand, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What kind of husband had God sent her? He never uttered a tender word, never slammed his fist on the table, just quietly worked away. On rare occasions, he’d simply glance at her and gently run his hand along her thick, honey-blonde braid—his sole display of affection. Oh, how Annie longed for more: for pet names and sweet nothings… Lost in thoughts of her lonely woman’s lot, Annie nearly tripped over old Buster, the family dog. Instantly, Henry darted over, caught his wife, and shot the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, Buster—you’ll end up tripping the missus.” Buster lowered his eyes, tail tucked, and shuffled off to his kennel. Annie was amazed, not for the first time, at how animals seemed to understand her husband. She’d asked Henry once about it, and he’d just replied, “I love animals, and they love me right back.” Annie, too, dreamed of love—love that swept her off her feet, with whispered words at night and flowers on her pillow each morning. But Henry was always so reserved, barely affectionate… Sometimes she even doubted whether he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” came a cheery voice over the fence—it was Victor, their neighbour. “Still fussing with your well, Henry? Who needs all those carvings anyway?” “I want our children to grow up with an eye for beauty,” Henry replied. “Well, you’ll need to have some first!” Victor winked at Annie. Henry’s eyes grew sad; Annie hurried inside, embarrassed. She wasn’t in a rush to have kids—after all, she was still young, beautiful, and maybe wanted to live for herself a little longer. Besides, her own husband was hardly the dashing type. And Victor—tall, broad-shouldered—now, he could make your heart flutter! He’d greet her near the gate, voice gentle as summer rain: “My little dove, my darling sun…” Annie’s knees would turn to jelly, but she’d always run from him. When she married Henry, she’d vowed to be faithful; her parents, together for decades, had taught her to cherish her marriage. Yet why did she yearn to catch Victor’s eye just for a moment? Next morning, as Annie led the cow to pasture, she ran into Victor at the gate. “Annie, dearest, why do you keep avoiding me? Are you shy? I can never get enough of your beauty—it makes my head spin.” He whispered, “Come see me at dawn. When your Henry leaves for fishing, just slip over, and I’ll shower you with all the love you could wish for.” Annie flushed, cheeks burning, heart racing… but hurried past him in silence. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Annie couldn’t stop thinking about him—Victor, with his smouldering gaze, promising her all she ever wanted. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to cross that line. Not yet… Maybe never. There were still long hours till dawn. That evening, Henry fired up the bathhouse—and even invited Victor to join. Victor happily agreed, saving himself the trouble of heating up his own. The two men swapped stories, laughing and thwacking each other with birch branches. After their steam, they relaxed in the changing room; Annie poured them a jug of homemade cider and arranged snacks, then dashed off for some pickled cucumbers in the cellar. As she came back and reached the door, she overheard voices from inside and paused: “Why so hesitant, Henry?” Victor said quietly. “Come along next time—you won’t regret it. Widows like those, they’ll smother you with affection… And the beauties there! Unlike your Annie—she’s a plain little mouse.” “No, friend,” came Henry’s quiet yet steady reply, “I want none of that. I won’t even think of it. And my Annie isn’t a little mouse—she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. There’s not a flower or berry to match her. When I look at her, I can’t even see the sun—just her eyes, her slender form. My love for her is like a river in flood. I just ache because I can’t speak the words to tell her how much I love her. She feels hurt, I know, and I’m frightened of losing her. I couldn’t live a day without her—I couldn’t even breathe…” Annie stood frozen, heart pounding, a tear sliding down her cheek. Suddenly she lifted her head, strode in, and loudly declared, “Victor, go keep those widows company—we’ve got more important things to do here at home. We don’t yet have anyone to gaze on the beautiful carvings Henry’s making. Forgive me, my dearest, for my foolish thoughts—for my blindness. Happiness was in my hands, and I nearly missed it. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time…” And at dawn the next day, Henry didn’t go fishing.

Love Isn’t for Show Ann came out of the cottage carrying a full bucket of pig feed, her mood sour as she passed by her husband, Henry, who had been fiddling with the well for three days now. He wanted to carve it to make it pretty—like he had nothing else to do! While his wife rushed about the house and tended the livestock, he just stood there with his chisel, covered in shavings, grinning at her. What sort of husband had God sent her? He never said a gentle word, never banged his fist on the table—instead he worked quietly, occasionally coming over just to look in her eyes and stroke her thick, honey-blonde braid; that was all the affection she got. But she yearned for more—for “my darling” and “my swan”… She pondered her lot as a wife and nearly tripped over old Bully the dog. In a flash, Henry caught her and gave the dog a stern look: “Watch where you’re going, or you’ll end up hurting the missus!” Bully hung his head and slunk off to his kennel. Ann was once again amazed by how her husband understood animals. She’d once asked Henry about it, and he simply replied, “I love animals, and they love me back.” Ann also dreamed of love—being swept off her feet, whispered sweet nothings, flowers on her pillow every morning. But Henry was stubbornly tight-fisted with affection, and she was starting to doubt if he loved her at all. “God bless, neighbours!” called out Victor over the fence, “Henry, are you still busy with that nonsense? Who needs your fancy carvings?” “I want my children to grow up good people, surrounded by beauty.” “You need to make some children first,” laughed Victor, winking at Ann. Henry glanced sadly at his wife, who, blushing, hurried indoors. She wasn’t in a rush for kids—young, pretty, wanting to enjoy life a bit longer, and her husband was neither here nor there. The neighbour, though—he was handsome! And when he met her by the gate, he spoke such sweet words, as gentle as a summer rain: “My little dew drop, my shining sun…” Her soul fluttered, her knees weakened, but Ann always ran away, refusing his advances. When she married, she’d promised to be a faithful wife; her parents had lived together in harmony for years and taught her to cherish her family. But why was she so eager to glance out the window and meet her neighbour’s eyes? The next morning, while driving the cow to graze, she bumped into Victor at the gate: “Ann, my lovely dove, why do you avoid me? Are you afraid? I could stare at your beauty all day—it makes my head spin when I see you. Come to me at dawn. When Henry goes fishing, come to my place. I’ll give you so much tenderness, you’ll be the happiest woman alive.” Ann flushed from head to toe, her cheeks burning, her heart racing, but said nothing—she quickly walked past him. “I’ll be waiting,” he called after her. All day, Ann thought of him. She craved love and affection—and Victor was handsome and looked at her with that fiery gaze—but she simply couldn’t go through with anything. There was still time before dawn tomorrow, maybe… That evening, Henry fired up the sauna. He invited the neighbour to join—they lashed each other with birch twigs, sweating and groaning with pleasure. When they finished, Ann brought them a little jug of homemade moonshine and some snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers in the cellar. She went to fetch them, but paused in the stairwell at the sound of their conversation through the half-open door. “Why are you so indecisive, Henry?” Victor’s voice was low. “Come on, you won’t regret it. There are widows there who’ll smother you with affection, real beauties—they’d gladden your heart! Not like your Ann, a grey country mouse.” “No, my friend,” came Henry’s quiet but firm reply. “I don’t want any beauties. I can’t even think about that. My wife isn’t some grey mouse—she’s the most wonderful woman in the whole world. There’s no blossom, no berry lovelier than her. When I look at her, I can’t see the sun—just her beautiful eyes and slender waist. I’m overflowing with love for her, like a river in spring. But I’m no good with sweet words. I guess it hurts her, and I’m to blame. I’m scared of losing her—I couldn’t live a day without her, not even breathe…” Ann stood frozen, her heart thundering, a tear running down her cheek. Then, lifting her head high, she strode into the steam room and declared, “Off you go, neighbour—go cheer up those widows! My husband and I have weightier matters. We’ve no one to admire Henry’s carvings yet. Forgive me, my love, for my foolish thoughts, for my blindness—I was holding happiness in my hands and didn’t see it. Come, we’ve wasted enough time already…” And at dawn, Henry didn’t go fishing after all.