He never got to plant the tree. I did it for us.
Emily sat at the old oak table in the lounge, her husband’s pocket watch in her hands. It was heavy, its silver casing worn, the glass cracked. The hands had stopped at half past five—a time that meant nothing. Or everything. She turned it over in her fingers, as if willing it back to life.
“What were you hiding, George?” she whispered, staring at the face. “You carried this even after it broke. Why?”
George had died three months ago. A heart attack, sudden as lightning. Emily was thirty-two; he’d been thirty-five. They’d just begun dreaming of the future—children, holidays, a little garden behind their cottage. But time had stopped. Just like the watch.
Emily sighed and set it down. She’d meant to sort through his things, but every jumper, every book pulled her back. The watch was the last mystery. George had never said where it came from. Only ever told her, “It’s important, Em.” That was all.
She stood and walked to the window. Their cottage in the countryside was buried in autumn leaves. Neighbourhood children kicked a football about; somewhere, a dog barked. Life went on, but for Emily, it had frozen.
“Enough,” she told herself. “You have to keep going. If not for you, for him.”
—
Emily wasn’t one to give up easily. Before marriage, she’d worked as a florist in a city shop, arranging bouquets that made people smile. George joked she could “tame flowers.” He’d been an engineer, quiet but with warm eyes. They’d met by chance—Emily dropping a pot of violets outside a café, George stopping to help gather the pieces.
“Don’t worry, the flower’ll live,” he’d said, grinning. “You, on the other hand, look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“That was my favourite pot!” she’d huffed, then laughed. His calm was infectious.
That was their beginning. A year later, they married, bought the cottage, adopted a tabby named Smudge. They dreamed of a child. But fate had other plans. Eighteen months ago, Emily lost the baby at five months. George held her hand, silent, but his silence spoke louder than words. They never spoke of that pain—just carried on. Now he was gone too.
The watch sat on the table, a reminder of things unsaid. Emily picked it up and strode out the door. There was an old watchmaker in town George had once mentioned. Maybe he’d know its secret.
—
The watchmaker’s shop was tucked down a narrow lane. The sign read, “Clocks & Time. Repairs.” Behind the counter sat an old man with bushy eyebrows and a kind smile. His name was Walter.
“Good afternoon,” Emily said, placing the watch on the counter. “It’s stopped. Can you fix it?”
Walter slid on his spectacles and examined it.
“Hmm, an old piece,” he murmured. “Swiss, early twentieth century. Where’d you get it?”
“My husband’s. He… treasured it.”
Walter nodded, as if he understood more than she’d said. He carefully opened the back and frowned.
“There’s something here,” he said, pulling out a folded slip of paper. “A letter, seems like.”
Emily froze.
“A letter? What letter?”
“Dunno,” Walter shrugged. “But the watch stopped ’cause the mechanism’s rusted. Can fix it, but it’ll take a couple days. The letter… that’s yours.”
He handed her the yellowed paper. Emily took it with trembling hands but couldn’t bring herself to unfold it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll come back for the watch later.”
—
At home, Emily sat with the letter in her lap for hours. Smudge curled around her ankles, purring, but she barely noticed. Finally, she took a deep breath and unfolded it. The handwriting was George’s—neat, with a slight slant.
“To the little one I’ll never meet.
I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I promised your mum we’d be a family, but life had other ideas. I always wanted to plant a tree for you. An oak, like the one by my grandad’s house. He said trees are life going on. If you’re reading this, I didn’t get the chance. But your mum will do it for me. She’s strong, my Em. Look after her, alright?
Your dad, George.”
Tears streaked Emily’s cheeks. She pressed the letter to her chest, as if she could hug George through the words. He’d written this after their loss but never showed her. Why? To spare her pain? Or to leave her hope?
“You always did things your way,” she whispered, smiling through tears. “Alright. I’ll plant your oak.”
—
The next day, Emily drove to the nursery. She chose a young oak with vibrant green leaves. The seller, an elderly woman named Margaret, noticed her distant gaze.
“Who’s the tree for?” she asked, wrapping the roots in burlap.
“My son,” Emily said softly. “And my husband.”
Margaret gave her a knowing look.
“Lovely thing to do, dear. Trees remember. My late husband loved oaks. Planted one every spring till he couldn’t. Now I tend ’em.”
“Where is he now?” Emily asked.
“Gone five years. But I see him in every leaf,” Margaret smiled. “You plant it, love. It’ll take root.”
Emily nodded, warmth spreading in her chest. Back home, she grabbed a spade and started digging in the garden. Smudge watched from the porch, as if approving. The earth was tough, but Emily kept at it, imagining George smiling down.
As she finished the hole, a voice called over the fence:
“Oi, neighbour, what’s all this?”
It was Maureen from across the lane—fifty-something, always turning up with pies or advice, invited or not.
“Planting a tree,” Emily said, wiping her brow.
“On your own? Let me help!” Maureen was already at the gate, ignoring protests. “Who’s the oak for?”
Emily hesitated, then told her about the letter and George. Maureen listened, shaking her head.
“Men, eh? Silent as tombs, then leave surprises. My late Bert once bought me earrings I never knew he’d saved for.”
“Weren’t you cross he never said?” Emily asked, lowering the oak into the hole.
“Furious,” Maureen laughed. “Then I realised—they don’t talk ’cause they love. Words ain’t their language. Here, steady the roots. Water it proper.”
Together, they filled the hole and patted the earth firm. The oak stood straight, as if it had always been there.
“Beautiful,” Maureen said. “Now tend to it, Em. That’s your little one now.”
Emily smiled. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel so alone.
—
Two days later, Emily returned to Walter’s shop. He greeted her with a smile.
“Watch is ticking,” he said, handing it over. “Mechanism’s sound, just needed cleaning. But this…” He produced another slip. “Found inside. Reckon your husband liked hiding notes.”
Emily unfolded it. Just a few lines:
“Em, if you’re reading this, I never got to say. You’re my time. Without you, I’d have stopped long ago. Live, my girl. And see my mate Alex—he’ll know what to do.”
“Alex?” Emily frowned. “Who’s Alex?”
“Might know that,” Walter said. “Fella named Alexander, your George’s friend. Engineer, like him. Works at the factory outside town. George spoke of him often.”
Emily thanked him and left, clutching the watch. She remembered George mentioning Alex—a childhood friend from uni. But after the wedding, they’d drifted. Why had George written about him?
—
The next day, Emily found the factory where Alexander worked. He was tall, with kind eyes like George’s. He knew her at once.
“Emily?” he smiled. “George talked about you loads. Sorry I missed the funeral. Was abroad for work.”
“It’s alright,” Emily said. “I found this.” She showed him the letter.
Alexander read it and nodded.
“Classic George. Always keeping secrets. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led her to a small office where a folder lay on the desk. Inside were blueprints and documents.
“George’s project,” Alexander explained. “Wanted to build a playground for our village kids. Like the one he never had. You know he grew up in care?”
Emily nodded, though George had rarely spoken of it.
“He saved for this,” Alexander continued. “Asked me to finish it if he couldn’t. Got lads from the factory ready to start. But we need you. You’re a florist, yeah? George wanted flowers round the playground. Yours.”
Emily felt tears rising again.
“He never said…”
She clutched the watch tightly in her pocket, feeling its steady tick echo the rhythm of her heart as she gazed at the oak standing tall in their garden, its leaves rustling gently in the breeze like a whispered promise from George—life, still growing, still loved.
