**The Place Where the Heart Belongs**
He lived alone.
His cottage stood apart, just beyond the village—over the hill where a lane with a peculiar name, *Appletree Lane*, once ran. Seven houses, curved like drowsy sentinels on the rise.
Then came the great migration—when folks left for cities, abandoning the land, forgetting their roots. The lane emptied. Houses collapsed, were torn apart for firewood, rotted away… All but one.
One. Like the last tooth in an old woman’s mouth.
That’s where Arthur Bennett had lived these past seven years.
Though… to be precise, he wasn’t entirely alone. There was Rusty. A dog, black with white patches, stubby legs, a curled tail, pointed ears, and eyes like burning coals. He understood everything but never spoke. A true companion. A true friend—just in a dog’s skin.
In the city, Arthur had a family once. A wife—distant, cold. A month’s worth of words between them, if that. A grown daughter who once clung to him but vanished from his life as if snapped away. A grandson was born, but he heard it from a neighbour, not his own flesh and blood.
When his heart faltered—badly—the doctor shrugged.
*”You need quiet. Nature. Have you such a place? I could recommend a retreat.”*
Arthur thought of his childhood home. The answer was simple.
*”I do. It holds all of me.”*
He told his wife plainly. She tapped her temple—as if he’d lost his mind.
He didn’t argue. He left alone.
He cut back the weeds. Rebuilt the roof. Mended the porch. Called an old friend from boyhood—they’d once hacked nettles like bandits—to help with the hearth. The cottage breathed again.
Sometimes, he swore he heard his mother’s tongue click in the corner, his father’s gruff approval from the past.
He whitewashed the hearth, painted the porch cherry-red, put in carved railings. Lovely.
Winter passed. His soul thawed. No calls, no letters—not from wife nor daughter. Then, come spring, someone left Rusty at his door. From then on, it was the two of them.
Summer stretched wide. Mornings meant the woods—Arthur with a basket, Rusty trotting beside him. Talking without words. Arthur bowed to the trees, as his grandmother taught him. *Ask permission. Never waste words—lest the wind steals them, and regret follows.*
Perhaps that’s why his family had slipped away—he was too quiet, too honest.
And so it might’ve stayed. Until *they* arrived.
They came in slick cars, clutching papers and plans. His land—the prettiest. The one with the view.
His home was in the way. The only one left.
*”Arthur, be reasonable. We’ll give you a flat in town, compensation. A proper home.”* The man smiled, voice smooth as butter, patting his shoulder.
Arthur brushed him off. Looked him dead in the eye.
*”This was my parents’ home. I was born here. I’ll die here. This is my place.”*
*”Well… if that’s how it is,”* the smile vanished. *”Court it is.”*
Court. Papers. A verdict. The cottage—doomed.
Arthur didn’t rage. His eyes… simply changed. Not angry. Not broken. As if he’d stepped out of time—where the grass grew waist-high, stew bubbled in the pot, and his father split logs.
The morning the bulldozer came, Arthur stepped outside. No fury. No words. Just sat on the bench. Rusty was nowhere in sight.
*”Mr. Bennett… I’m sorry. Orders,”* the young driver stammered.
Arthur studied him.
*”Do your job, lad. But know this—under the porch is Rusty. Same dog that dragged you from the pond that winter. Remember? Five years back. Start with him. Then me. I’m going inside.”*
The boy paled. Then killed the engine and left.
Two days later, villagers came—some with shovels, some with buckets. The young driver too. They called the news. Made noise. Saved the cottage.
The plans were redrawn. The road rerouted.
Now, Arthur lives in peace. A beehive. Honey. Rusty at his heels.
Then—*she* appeared.
At the gate, suitcase in hand, a boy of five clinging to the other. A battered car behind her.
*”Hello, Dad…”* Emily. His daughter. *”We’ve come. Will you have us?”*
Silently, he opened the gate.
The boy—Thomas—shrank against his mother. Never met his grandfather. Arthur crouched, lifted him.
*”Come. See the apple tree. Pluck one. Gently.”*
Inside, the cottage smelled of herbs, dried mushrooms, beeswax.
*”Dad… I’m sorry. I was angry. Thought you’d left us. Then… I became a mother myself. Understood.”* Her voice shook. *”I left my husband. Nowhere else to go. Just for the winter?”*
He hugged her. Like when she was small.
*”It’ll sort itself. Stay.”*
Winter passed. Come spring, Emily hesitated.
*”Dad… the school offered me a job. Deputy head. Can you believe it?”*
*”Will you take it?”*
*”Buy me a hive? My own. For the biology class.”*
That evening, a new hive stood under the tree.
*”Granddad!”* Thomas beamed. *”And for me?”*
*”Always.”*
Summer brought the woods. Rusty. Thomas. Emily stayed home, whitewashing.
They returned—the cottage gleamed. Clean windows, fresh paint, flowers on the shutters.
*”When did you—?”*
At the gate, Rusty danced around someone…
*”Granddad! It’s Grandma!”*
Arthur froze.
*”Hello, Arthur…”*
*”Hello, Margaret…”*
*”Can I… stay?”*
Emily flushed. *”Mum came on her own. We fixed up the place, and she… painted the shutters.”*
*”Grandma, did you draw these?”*
*”I did,”* she smiled.
Evening tea beneath the oak. Quiet.
*”It’s peaceful here,”* Margaret murmured. *”May I stay? In the city—it’s noise. Here… stillness.”*
*”Stay, Meg.”*
*”May I?”*
He didn’t answer. Just a light in his eyes.
I’m Thomas. Arthur’s grandson.
We live here, on our family’s land.
The cottage is restored. Mum remarried—Uncle Paul, a local. They had Nina. She lives nearby. All of us—together.
Granddad and Grandma are gone now. But memory lingers.
And where there’s memory—there’s family. That’s what Granddad used to say.
This is our place. Where our hearts belong.
