**A Seaside Town**
Evening settled over the little coastal town. Autumn hadn’t quite arrived yet—only the crowds of holidaymakers had thinned. William was the sort who disliked beachside chaos and sweltering heat. That’s precisely why he’d chosen October for his seaside trip. Still warm enough for a swim, yet the nights were crisp and fresh. He had another reason for coming here, too.
He walked slowly, squinting at street signs on the houses. He’d expected the moment he arrived, memories would flood back—but nothing looked familiar. Stopping at the right address, he pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and double-checked. This was the place. Same address, yet where a modest bungalow once stood, there was now a two-storey house with a pointed roof. Through the wrought-iron fence, he could see a well-tended garden laden with apples, pears, and plums.
William slid his rucksack off his shoulder and set it down, mopping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. At the far end of the garden, a woman was unpinning laundry from a clothesline. He saw only her back. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman picked up her laundry basket and turned to leave. William took a deep breath and called out:
“Excuse me! Do you rent rooms?”
She turned, studied him a moment, then walked to the gate. Up close, he realised his mistake—she was about his age.
“Looking for a room?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as if trying to place him.
“Yes. Some friends stayed here over summer—said I ought to try you,” he lied smoothly.
“Bit late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Perfect for me. Can’t stand the heat,” William smiled. “So, any rooms free?”
“Take your pick. Empty as a church on Monday.” She set the basket down and unlatched the gate. “Go on in—door’s open.”
William hoisted his bag and walked past her.
“Go ahead,” she urged when he hesitated at the threshold.
Inside, the spacious hall doubled as a sitting room—clean, bright, and cosy, nothing like the cramped little place he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you,” she said.
The wooden steps creaked faintly under his weight. There hadn’t been an upstairs before. Was this even the right house?
“First door on the right,” she directed. “How long are you staying? Doesn’t matter, really. Bathroom’s next door. Shared between three rooms, but you’ll have it to yourself.”
William stepped into the snug little room. Beyond the window, the sea shimmered under a blazing crimson sunset.
“Like something out of a storybook,” he murmured without thinking.
“Your friends tell you the rates? Off-season now, so I’ve dropped the price. Meals extra.”
“Suits me,” William said, turning to her with a grin. “What should I call you?”
“Martha. And you?”
“Wi—William,” he said, catching himself.
*Martha. Could it really be her? She’s changed so much. What did I expect—that forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time’s bent us all out of shape. Doesn’t seem to recognise me, though.*
“You been here before?” Martha asked, as if reading his mind. “The way you’re looking at me…”
“Don’t think so. Definitely not this house,” he said, scanning the room again.
“Fancy some supper?”
“If it’s no trouble,” William said, searching her face for traces of the girl he’d known.
“None at all. Come down in twenty.” And she left.
William sank onto the bed—firm, but no creaks. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a shoebox of a room. No upstairs back then.
*She didn’t recognise me. Can’t blame her—forty years is a long time. Probably forgot I existed. Put on weight, aged. Wouldn’t know her if I passed her in the street. Oh, Martha… so much water under the bridge.*
***
He’d arrived with two friends that summer, a lifetime ago. His Emily was supposed to come too, but they’d quarrelled last minute—he’d caught her with an older man, made a scene, and she’d refused to go. He’d nearly cancelled, heartbroken. What was the point of a holiday when your world had just crumbled?
But his mate talked him into leaving town to patch up his wounded pride. They’d all crammed into one room—him, his friend, and the friend’s girlfriend, Lily. Awkward. William spent his evenings wandering the promenade just to give them privacy, and even on the beach, he kept his distance.
That’s how he met Martha. She swam far from the crowds, effortlessly cutting through the waves. After chatting, he asked where she was staying.
“Local, actually. Just back for the holidays to help Mum with the garden,” she said, tugging a sundress over her damp swimsuit.
“Mind if I walk you? Don’t disappear on me,” he said, scrambling for his things.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Course. Half the town does. Winters are lean. You stuck for a place?”
“I’m sharing with my mate and his girl. Bit of a third wheel.”
“Move in with us, then. I’ll ask Mum,” she offered.
He agreed without even seeing the room—tiny, and more expensive than his current digs. His friends grumbled, tried to sway him, but William just shrugged: “Got my reasons.” They dropped it.
Two weeks vanished like smoke. He barely thought of Emily. Why would he, with pretty, smitten Martha beside him? At the time, he’d almost believed he loved her too.
Once, he overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger. But every evening, they’d meet by the sea, lie on the sand, stargaze, and kiss until dawn streaked the sky.
They swapped numbers before he left, swore they’d meet again—London wasn’t so far from Manchester, after all. Martha chased the train, waving, and he’d nearly leapt off to stay with her forever.
The whole journey home, he’d lain on his bunk, face to the wall, aching for the warm sea and Martha, weaving plans for their reunion. Back then, he’d believed it would happen. Why wouldn’t it? But as often happens, promises made in passion are cheap and quickly forgotten.
Emily turned up the moment he got home, apologising, saying she’d only meant to make him jealous. But he spotted a new, delicate ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. I’m done,” he said.
“Want me to bin it?” She twisted the ring off.
Then came university. At first, he and Martha wrote, even plotted meetings, but William kept postponing. Eventually, he married someone else.
That summer became a warm, hazy memory, fading with time. Holidays with his wife meant Turkey, Spain, or his in-laws’ cottage. Then divorce… So many “then”s he’d lost count.
Now retired, alone—no wife, no kids—he’d imagined returning would rewind time, if just for a moment. But the seaside town had changed. And so had he. And Martha.
***
Twenty minutes later, William sat eating a hearty supper. Martha poured him homemade wine, which left him drowsy. The seaside stroll could wait till morning. Upstairs, he showered and collapsed onto the lavender-scented bed.
Breakfast waited on the kitchen table the next day—Martha was out. He ambled along the promenade, even paddled, rolling up his trousers. Too chilly for a proper swim.
At lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“I’m not. Daughter’s family’s in Bristol. Grandkids were here all summer. Coming back for Christmas. Son-in-law fixed up the house—added this floor.”
“Your husband?” William ventured.
She dodged the question, turned it back on him. After lunch, he offered to help in the garden, but Martha refused outright. With nothing else to do, he napped—or tried to. Staring at the ceiling, he thought:
*Why am I here? Should’ve booked somewhere else, seen her from afar. Who barges in after forty years, uninvited, unannounced? Could her daughter be mine? Maybe. But even if so—I wasn’t there. Didn’t raise her, buy her toys. She’s grown. What’s she need me for? Bloody stupid thoughts…*
Sometimes, he caught Martha studying him. In those moments, he thought—*she knows*. Flustered, he’d escape to the sea.
*Coward. Always were. Just ask her, talk, confess. What’s there to lose?* But the words never came.
Then it was time to leave. The weather had soured—rain, wind, autumn flexing its muscles. Martha packed him jars of jam, fresh fruit, even a cake forAnd as the train carried him away, he clutched the jar of blackberry jam—its sweetness lingering like the unspoken words between them—wondering if some stories are meant to remain unfinished.
