You Can Never Truly Forget: Prokhor’s Journey from Bustling London Tube Commutes to Rediscovering His First Love, Mary, the Village Herbalist – A Heartfelt Reunion in England’s Countryside After Years Apart

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Its strange how some memories never quite fade, no matter how much life changes. Every day, I make the same journey from work to home: tube first, then catch the bus, and finally Im back in my flat. The commute eats up over an hour each waytypical London life, I suppose. My car sits idle most days; traffic in the mornings and the evenings is just dreadful, so its simpler to stick with public transport.

Its been nearly two years now since my life turned upside down. Amy and I separated. Our daughter, Sophie, was seventeen then and stayed with her mother. It all ended quietly, no shouting matchesnever was much for drama myself. I had noticed Amy changing, becoming distant and easily irritated. Often shed leave for hours, coming home late with the same old line about meeting her friend.

One evening I asked, Why are you coming in so late? Most wives are home at this hour.

She snapped back, Its none of your concern. Those normal wives are hens. Im differentintelligent and outgoing. This house is suffocating. Im not some country bumpkin like you. Born on a farm, still think like one.

So whyd you marry a farm boy? I retorted.

She shrugged, Chose the lesser of two evils. And that was that.

Soon after, Amy filed for divorce and I had to move out of our place. Ive grown used to living on my own, not ready to marry againthough Im quietly looking.

Back on the tube, I do what everybody does: make the most of the ride, phone glued to my hand, scrolling through social media. News, jokes, videosthe usual distractions. Scrolling absentmindedly, something suddenly jolted me and I scrolled back to a post that caught my eye.

Traditional Herbalist Mary. Family Remedies.

There she was, staring back at me from my phonemy first love, my hopeless crush from school. First love, unforgettable and forever bittersweet. I remember Mary so clearly, the quiet girl who seemed a little odd but was beautiful in her own way.

I nearly missed my stop, scrambled out of the carriage, and walked briskly home instead of waiting for the bus. It was like walking through a haze, everything automatic. Dropped my coat at the door, sat on the little stool by the hallway, staring at my phone in the dark. Scribbled down Marys number from the advert before my phone died, so I popped it on the charger. Tried to eat, but had no appetiteonly managed to poke at the food. I settled on the sofa, memories crowding in.

Mary always stood out, even from the first day at schoolnever loud, always polite, her thick golden plait swinging as she walked. School uniform much longer than others, keeping herself apart. We grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone, but Mary was a mystery. She lived on the edge of town with her grandparents, their cottage by the woods looking every bit like an old fairy tale with its carved windowsills.

The day I first saw Mary, she had this handmade backpack with embroideryno one else had something so unique. In place of a casual hi, shed say, Good health to you, like shed stepped out of a storybook. Always calm and collected, she never shouted or joined in wild games.

One day, Mary didnt come to school. A group of us, worried she might be ill, went to check in on her after class. I was with them. We followed the lane out of town, turned the corner and saw their storybook cottageand a crowd gathered. Marys grandmother had passed away. Mary stood there, small and tearful, her grandfather silent and steely-eyed. We all joined in the funeral procession and were invited into the house for the wake afterward.

That memory stuck with me; Id never been to a funeral before. Mary returned to school a few days later. Time passed and we grew up; the girls started wearing makeup and fussing over fashion. Not Maryback straight as ever, pink-cheeked and graceful, untouched by trends.

Boys started making moves, so I decided to try my luck with Mary. She brushed off the attention until, finally, at the end of Year Nine, I asked if I could walk her home.

She looked at me seriously and whispered, Im promised, Tom. Its our familys way.

I was confused and disappointednot understanding her familys traditions. I later found out her grandparents were old believers, and her parents had passed away years ago.

Mary was top of the class, never flaunted jewelry or gossip. Other girls whispered about her but Mary never paid them any mind; she carried herself with dignity.

She blossomed every year, and by Sixth Form she was stunningtall and elegant. The lads admired her secretly and never made jokes at her expense.

After school, our class scattered. I went to London for university, lost contact with Mary except for the vague knowledge that shed married as promised. My visits home dwindled. Summers were spent with work crews, building or renovating.

Mary went away to some distant village, living as a farmers wife, keeping cattle and looking after the house. She had a son. The rest of us never saw her again.

So now, seeing that advert, I thought: So Marys become an herbalist? Fascinating. Shes even more beautiful now.

That night, I barely slept. Morning found me still thinking about her. Had breakfast, went to work, went through motionsall the while, her image haunting me.

First love never lets you go, does it? My heart was restless.

Several days passed, and then I gave inI messaged her.

Hi Mary, I wrote.

Good health to you, came her reply. Some things never change. Do you need advice or are you unwell?

Its Tom, your old classmate. Remember, we used to share a desk in school. Saw your ad online and thought Id reach out.

Yes, I remember you, Tom. You were the best student among the boys.

Theres a phone number herecan I call you? I asked, quietly.

Of course. Call me anytime.

That evening after work, I built up the courage and phoned. We talked a while, catching up.

Im in London now, I said. But tell me about yourself, Mary. Hows your family? Still living locally?

Im back in the cottage, same one I walked to school from. Came home after my husband passedbear attack in the woods. Granddad passed years ago.

Im so sorry, MaryI didnt know

It happened a long time ago; Ive made peace. Life does what it does. Are you calling for herbs, Tom, or just for old times?

Just for old times. I saw your photo and was swept into memories. I havent been back to our town in ages. Mum passed away years ago.

We chatted about classmates and memories, then said goodbye. My routine returnedwork, home, but after a week, nostalgia got the best of me and I rang her again.

Hello, Mary.

Good health, Tom. Missing someone or feeling unwell?

Ive missed you, Mary. Dont be cross, but may I visit you? Would you mind? My heart thudded.

Come, if you like, she said warmly. Whenever suits.

Ive got a week off soon, I blurted out, delighted.

Lovely. You know the address. I could hear her smiling.

That entire week I fussed about what gifts to bring. I didnt know what she liked anymore. When it was finally time, I drove out from London to my old hometown. Six hours at the wheel, I didnt mindlong drives always soothe me.

I was surprised by the changes when I turned off the main road. The town had grownnew houses, a thriving factory. The old high street now boasted supermarkets and cafes. I pulled up outside a shop, marveling.

Thought this town would be rundown like so many others, but its come alive, I mused aloud.

Were not a town anymore, its a little city! laughed an elderly gent passing by, overhearing me. Got the status ages back, you mustve been gone a while.

Long time, mate, I said.

Our mayors top-notch, runs the place with heartthats why its thriving.

Mary waited for me in the gardenId rung her as I approached. She saw my car, heart pounding. Nobody ever knew that Mary had quietly loved me since our school days; shed held onto that secret, never spoken, and would have taken it to the grave had I not reached out.

Our reunion was joyful. We sat together for hours in her old gazebothe cottage older now, but still warm and inviting.

Mary, Im here for a reason, I told her, serious but hope flickering in my chest.

She tensed a little, curious. Go on, whats your reason?

Ive loved you all my life, Mary. Will you finally let me love you? It all spilled out, there in her garden.

Mary jumped up, threw her arms around my neck. Tom, TomIve loved you since we were children too.

I spent my holiday with Mary, promised as I left: Ill sort out things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. Im not leaving again. I was born hereheres where I belong. I laughed, happy as Id felt in years.

You Just Don’t Know What Happiness Is — Half a million? — Karen stared at the notification on her phone, reading it three times before the number sank in. — Did you take out a loan for half a million pounds? Dylan was sitting on the sofa, glued to his own smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing. Just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her plumbing’s leaking, the floorboards are warped, the wallpaper is mouldy… — Wait. — Karen sank onto the armchair, her legs refusing to hold her up. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without even telling me? Dylan finally looked up. His face showed genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something utterly obvious. — Karen, it’s Mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else can help her? — But you didn’t even discuss it with me? — Karen’s voice rose, but she couldn’t stop. — You didn’t ask what I thought or warn me at all? — You’d have just argued — Dylan shrugged. — Mum needed it right away. Four years. Four years enduring this woman: nightly calls to check what Dylan had eaten, surprise visits with criticism on cleanliness, family dinners with Karen seated at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill — Dylan kept his calm tone. — We’ll manage. We’ll pay it back quickly; it’s not a big sum. It’s just family. The tears came hot and furious. Karen wiped them away with the back of her hand, smudging mascara across her cheeks. — Family? Am I family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep among someone else’s clutter”? How on my birthday you and she went to choose her a new fridge? — That’s all trivial — Dylan dismissed. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at him — tall, soft features, dimples she once found charming. Now he just looked like a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the apron strings. — We’ll get through this — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen silently walked to the bedroom. Two large sports bags sat in the closet, the ones she brought when she first moved in. She pulled them out, dumped them on the bed, and started opening drawers. Dylan appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, the first bag packed to the brim. — What are you doing? Karen, this is silly. You can’t be serious. She didn’t answer. Carefully folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down her jewellery box — gifts from family and friends. Nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s up in Manchester! She zipped the second bag, checked her handbag — passport, bank card, keys to her mother’s flat, just in case. — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She gave him a long, silent look, then picked up her bags and walked out. … The next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, gripping the signed divorce application. Rain dotted the windows, grey clouds hung low, but inside, there was a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen sat bolt upright on her friend Lisa’s sofa, momentarily lost. — We have to talk — Dylan’s breathing was ragged, words scattered. — I get it now, I’ll change. Give me one chance. She let the call go. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You’re my whole world. By morning, forty-three messages had arrived. Each long, tearful, desperate — full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week later, he started appearing at her office. Karen left for lunch — there he was by the sandwich shop. Walked to the tube station after work — saw him across the road. — Just passing by — Dylan grinned when Karen demanded an explanation. — Wanted to see you. One evening, the doorbell rang at Lisa’s flat. Karen answered without checking — expecting the pizza delivery. Dylan stood outside, clutching red roses. — Just one chance — he whispered. — I won’t ask for more. Karen shut the door silently. He stood outside for two hours, until neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — as one adjusts to chronic pain. Not reading messages, blocking unknown numbers, not looking over her shoulder. Changed jobs to remote work, moved to a suburb where Dylan couldn’t just bump into her. The divorce went through after three months. Karen stepped out of the courthouse with the official paper in hand, crying at the steps — out of relief, not grief. The first months of freedom were scary in their emptiness. Karen had always checked every decision with someone — even when that someone did what they pleased anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she liked, regardless of whether Mrs Evans approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch things like that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — a dream Dylan called “a waste of money.” Began morning yoga, before sunrise, when the city was still quiet. Took a solo weekend trip to Brighton, wandered the lanes, sampling fudge and admiring the seaside. After half a year, the calls stopped. The messages too. Karen braced herself for a catch, then another month passed, and she realised she could finally relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency — bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at a company party — her colleague Marie dragged her along. — He’s our top programmer — Marie introduced the tall man in slim glasses. — Andrew, meet Karen from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, gentle. Smiled — easily, without posturing. — You’ve escaped karaoke too? — he nodded toward the stage, where finance was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Protecting my nerves — Karen grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, how odd life is. Andrew listened more than spoke, asking questions and waiting for her answers. Never lecturing, never telling her how to live. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded, then changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, picking a small, bright flat in the city centre with high windows facing a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Karen asked at the last viewing. — Should we see more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes, I really do. — Then let’s take it. Little things — having her opinion matter — meant far more than any flowery speeches. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, with the sky painted in pinks and golds. Took out a small box, opened it — inside shone a diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up beside you every day. If you can put up with my snoring and bad coffee. Karen laughed through her tears and nodded… …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was working late — urgent deadline, code bug. Karen cooked pasta, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang: sharp, persistent, demanding. She looked through the spyhole and recoiled. Dylan stood in the hallway — pale, eyes sunken, shirt crumpled. Two years, two years of silence — then he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered on the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dylan shouted. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook as he threw himself against it, trying to barge in. Karen pressed her back to the door, braced her feet. — Leave! — she screamed. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice turned shrill. — You were mine, you always will be! Two years I’ve been waiting for you to see sense! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s not over! — he shoved the door again, and she barely kept it closed. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! She glimpsed his face in the spyhole — twisted, obsessed. No longer the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — Dylan! One call — the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dylan froze. A few seconds of silence. Then he spun round and stormed toward the stairs. Down below, the front door crashed. Karen slid down against the wall, ears ringing. Only after half an hour did she stand and call Andrew. The police accepted the report next day. The officer — an older man with a moustache — wrote everything down, listened, nodded. — We’ll sort it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to Dylan, Karen never knew. But her ex never showed up again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …The wedding took place at a country restaurant in early June — just twenty friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives insisting on tradition. Karen stood opposite Andrew in her simple white dress, hands clasped in his. Through the window, birch trees whispered, the air smelled of blossoms and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — the officiant began. — I do — Karen replied before he finished, and laughter filled the room. Andrew slid a slim gold ring onto her finger — engraved inside were three words: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would now be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed pursuer. Just a man, who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead, awaited a life where her voice truly mattered…

Dandelion Jam Winter’s blanket of snow finally melted, leaving behind a softness that made spring’s arrival all the more welcome. The town was waking up—you could tell by the bustle at the market and the cheerful flutter of birds outside windows. Taissia, a long-time resident of her old block of flats, watched from the third floor, eager for sunshiny days, the riot of colour, and the freedom from heavy coats. Spring suited Taissia. She lived with her granddaughter, Vera, ever since Vera’s parents left for a doctor’s contract in Africa: “We trust you with our little Vera. She’s happier with you, Mum.” Taissia had laughed, promising to make the most of retirement with her sprightly granddaughter. The day unfolded with its familiar rhythm: breakfast, school, chores. Outside, her neighbours had already claimed the bench beneath the budding trees—Mrs Simmons, whose real age was as mysterious as her sharp wit, and Valentine, the loud, joyous bookworm, always in friendly opposition to Simmons’s grumbling. The bench was never empty once the sun came out, and these two were its loyal sentinels, keeping an eye on everyone and everything. Taissia sometimes joined in, gossiping about what she’d read, sharing news from TV, enduring Simmons’s health complaints. But today she popped to the shops, promising Vera a sweet treat for good marks. After school, Vera practised her dance moves, which made Taissia beam with pride. In the evening, she waited for Vera outside, joined by their neighbour, Mr George Elliot from downstairs, who always greeted the spring with a poet’s soul, likening the golden dandelions to tiny suns. Vera, ever the bundle of energy, startled her grandmother with mischief, and Taissia gathered her up for dinner—grated carrots sugared just right and her favourite homemade cutlets. George lingered too, tempted by the mention of cutlets, and hinted at a walk later. By and by, Taissia found herself back on the bench with George, sharing quiet moments now that Simmons and Valentine had retired for the evening. These gentle evenings became habit, strolling to the nearby park, reading magazines, exchanging life stories and recipes. George’s life had not been easy. Widowed young, he raised his daughter, Vera, alone, working late into every night. Vera grew up, moved away, married, had a son, then divorced and raised her boy alone. Visits became rare and strained. One afternoon, George shared news—Vera was coming. Taissia was optimistic, but George doubted: “She wants something, I’m sure.” Vera arrived, all business. She pressed George to sell his flat and move in with her, sharing space with her and her son—a practical solution, but George recoiled, preferring his independent, familiar staple of life. Vera, relentless, learned of her father’s friendship with Taissia and visited, tea and sweets on offer. But her words cut sharp: “Convince him to sell the flat, it’s wasted on one old man. Surely you’re not after it for yourself or your granddaughter?” Accusations flew, harsh words rang out, and Vera stormed away. Taissia was mortified, worried what the neighbours must have heard. For days, she avoided George, ducking inside when she saw him. Yet, as fate would have it, she met George outside the building, making dandelion chains. “Don’t run off,” he pleaded, offering her the half-finished chain. “Sorry for my daughter. I’ve spoken to her—she’s left, and says she has no father now. But I wanted to give you this. I’ve made dandelion jam. It’s delicious—and healthy too,” he smiled, “and dandelion makes a fine salad.” That evening they shared dandelion salad and tea with spoonfuls of his homemade jam. Taissia loved it. Later, they walked together under their favourite linden tree, magazine in hand, laughter rising softly into the spring air. It was just the two of them, their worries forgotten, sharing stories and sweet dandelion jam. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!