There was a deep chasm between them…
Emily struggled to piece herself back together after her divorce. She had suspected her husband was unfaithful, yet facing the truth still shattered her. Their marriage, their dreams, their carefully built life—gone in an instant. James simply walked out of their home, out of her life.
Summer faded, but Emily noticed none of it—the sun, the city hum, the rainbows after storms. One stifling night, tossing in bed, she realized she couldn’t go on like this. James had moved on, while she was barely alive, drowning in grief.
“Everything here reminds me of him, of us. But ‘us’ doesn’t exist anymore. I need to leave, even just for a while. Not to some crowded holiday spot—somewhere quiet. The countryside. Gran’s old cottage. We all come from somewhere like that, don’t we? That’s where roots are. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?” Emily sat bolt upright, her nightgown clinging to her damp skin.
Gran had passed three years ago after a long illness. Emily had been hesitant to leave her, but James insisted on their trip to France. “Ten days won’t change anything,” he’d said. The news reached them in Paris. “We can’t help now. Rescheduling flights is a nightmare. We’ll visit her grave when we’re back.” And, as always, she’d obeyed.
Emily’s stepfather owned a holiday home—a large house with land just outside town. Her mother had often talked of selling Gran’s cottage but never got round to it.
As a child, Emily had spent every summer there. Then university came, and she never returned. Not even to visit Gran’s grave. She couldn’t recall why now.
Her palms itched with impatience. She grabbed her phone, ready to call her mother about the cottage keys, but the glowing screen showed the dead of night. Everyone was asleep. She set it down, sinking back into the pillow. It didn’t matter. She had a plan—a way to pull herself from this pit of heartache. Imagining packing, the drive, the cottage, she finally drifted off.
Morning came quickly. She rang her mother first thing, asking for the keys.
“Thank goodness. Finally thinking about something other than James. He’s not the only man in the world, you know,” her mother sighed, slipping back into the usual lecture.
“Mum, please. Comforting words don’t help. Just find the keys.”
“They’re in the hallway drawer. Come by—I’d like to see you. The place is fine. Ran into Aunt Margaret in May—did I tell you? No? Well, she was in town for her granddaughter’s wedding. Said the cottage looks untouched. Asked if I’d sell it. Her new son-in-law fancies it. Fancies the whole village, really. Maybe we should go together?”
“No. I’m going alone. I’ll stop by after work.”
All day, her thoughts circled the trip. Her boss, also divorced, listened as Emily explained—work hadn’t filled the void. She needed time away. Since it was the slow season, her boss relented, though grudgingly.
That evening, she fetched the keys and packed light, unsure if she’d last a full day before the heartache chased her back.
Oddly, she slept soundly. Dawn found her sipping coffee, double-checking the flat, then stepping out into the sleeping city. Sunlight crept over rooftops as she drove, singing along to the radio.
Though years had passed, the route to the village was muscle memory. The cottage stood just as she remembered. Even the garden had been tended—likely a neighbour. Stepping out, she exhaled into the quiet. Sounds were everywhere—crickets, birdsong, a distant rooster, a dog rattling its chain—but compared to London’s roar, this was silence.
Inside was damp, shadows clinging to drawn curtains. Emily refused regrets and got to work—hauling water from the well, scrubbing floors (though they were spotless), stacking dry firewood. When the stove finally roared to life, pride warmed her chest.
Villagers passed, eyeing her car, peering through windows, but none intruded. Uninvited visits weren’t the done thing.
Soon, the cottage baked. She aired blankets, propped pillows near the stove, then headed to the river behind the village, kicking off sandals to tread sun-scorched grass. The water looked black, thick as oil.
She ventured upstream, shed her sundress, and plunged in. A fountain of droplets sparkled.
“Thought I heard splashing. What’s this—a mermaid?” A man’s voice.
Emily spun. There stood Daniel—older, broader, unmistakable. Her first love. A fishing rod in one hand, a string of trout in the other.
Her heart leapt, stealing breath and thought. Memories flooded—how she’d once begged to stay here with him. Her mother refused.
She’d begged him to move to London. He agreed—but never came. Then Gran wrote he’d married. Emily never returned. At uni, she’d met James—married him more from spite than love.
“You’re alone? No husband?” Daniel studied her.
“Alone. How’d you know about him?”
“Visited once. Saw you both.”
“When?” Then she remembered—years ago, heading to a wedding. James had fetched her, and as they left, she’d glimpsed a familiar face, vanishing before she placed it.
“I came to explain. About Lydia… I’m not excusing it, but she took advantage. One time, that was all. Then she claimed she was pregnant. What choice did I have? Married her. Alfie’s in Year Three now. Then came little Maisie.”
Emily smirked.
“I know what you’re thinking. Alfie—fine, accident. But Maisie… Lydia and I—never worked. Whatever I say, she twists it. You’re city, I’m country. Worlds apart. Lydia’s… local. Made sense then.”
Standing in her swimsuit, Emily prickled under his gaze. She tugged on her sundress, damp fabric sticking. Goosebumps rose.
“Cold?”
They walked back. As houses neared, she suggested parting ways.
“Place is all eyes and ears. Nowhere to hide,” Daniel said, slowing his stride.
“Smart move, coming here. What’s abroad but stress? Here—peace, fresh air, beauty. Mushrooms galore. Fancy foraging tomorrow?”
She said she’d think about it.
The cottage now smelled lived-in, though the stove’s heat was stifling. She propped the door open. Night brought strange silence, broken by mice and creaking beams. She swore someone walked the attic.
At dawn, restless, she headed for the woods, sticking to tractor tracks, afraid to wander deeper.
A twig snapped—loud, like some beast crashing through undergrowth. She bolted, stopping only when a stitch bit her side. Lost.
She shouted. Another crackle. She tensed to run—then Daniel appeared.
“Lost? Dangerous alone,” he scolded, eyeing her near-empty basket. “Set it down.”
“Why?” But she obeyed. He poured half his haul into hers.
“Plenty this year. Lydia’s sick of cleaning them.”
Walking back, she caught his glances, flustered but warm. Then—two days in, she realized James hadn’t crossed her mind.
“Straight on leads home,” Daniel pointed. “I’ll linger. Best not be seen together.”
She bit back questions, turned once—he was gone.
Villagers saw everything. Back home, Emily cleaned mushrooms, humming. The cottage filled with rich, earthy scent.
Then the door banged open—Lydia, eyes blazing.
“What’re you doing here?” she spat. “No men left in London? Keep your eyes off Daniel. Or else—”
“Or what?” Emily narrowed her eyes. No more letting others dictate her life.
“You’ll see. Leave, before I—”
A pot boiled over. When Emily turned back, Lydia had vanished.
Next came Aunt Margaret, a distant relative.
“Hello, love. Checking the place? Your mum mentioned selling. We’ll buy. Don’t offer elsewhere—I know fair prices.”
“Not decided yet, sorry.”
“No need to apologise. Your house, your rules. Here to relax? Good. Abroad’s all rush.”
Emily laughed.
“Something funny?”
“Someone said the same yesterday.”
Aunt Margaret sighed. “Lydia threw a fit last night. Saw you with Daniel. Screamed at him—then begged on her knees when he walked out. Be careful—she’s wild when jealous.”
Emily froze.
“We just met by chance. I’m not stealing anyone.”
“Of course not. And the woods were chance too? Daniel never returns empty-handed. Go home, love. The cottage is tidy—good of you.”
Emily stayed. Two peaceful days passed—Daniel only in glimpses.
Then, smoke woke her. Coughing, she grabbed her purse, keys—but flames blocked the door. She scrambled to windows—strong arms hauled her—and when she came to, gasping, her cottage was an inferno, the villagers’ futile efforts dwarfed by the blaze.
“Daniel saved your life—dashed through the fire like a madman,” someone muttered as she sat trembling on the grass, her soot-streaked sundress clinging to her like a second skin.
Aunt Margaret tugged her up. “Come, stay with me—nothing left here. It’s Lydia’s doing, mark my words, though proving it’s another matter.”
Emily left at dawn. At the village outskirts, Daniel waited by the roadside, wordlessly sliding into the passenger seat as she slowed.
“Drive to the next village,” he said, and she obeyed, hands tight on the wheel.
“She came to threaten you—I know,” he admitted, staring ahead. “I tried leaving before—she swore she’d kill the kids, then herself. Like quicksand. The cottage—it’s just wood and stone. But you’re alive.”
“Come with me,” she whispered, the car crawling over ruts, her eyes flicking to his profile.
He shook his head. “Not as charity. And I won’t abandon my children—she’d burn the world to spite us. Pull over here.”
When he stepped out, she watched through tears and dust in the rearview mirror until he vanished.
Home in London, she flung herself into work—three relentless years—until her boss handed her a client’s file: a countryside renovation, requesting her personally.
The half-built house stood proud on the hillside—and there he was, thinner, weathered, eyes unchanged.
“You? This is yours?” she breathed.
“Left Lydia after you drove away. Worked construction—saved every penny. The lads helped.” He led her inside, pausing at a lone nursery. “Don’t know if it’ll be a boy or girl yet.”
Her pulse faltered. “You remarried?”
“Not yet.” He turned, calloused hands framing her face. “Say no if I’m too late—or if a labourer’s not enough for you.”
“No,” she laughed, stepping into his arms, his shirt smelling of sweat and sawdust and home.
Under her cheek, his heartbeat echoed hers, steady and sure.
