Seraphina slipped into her favourite summer dress, dabbed a touch of lipstick on her pale lips, and studied herself in the mirror. “Maybe I should dye my hair,” she sighed before stepping out into the world.
The air was thick with the first true heat of summer. Golden sunlight spilled over emerald grass, and fleecy clouds drifted lazily across the sky. At last—after weeks of cold winds and rain through May and half of June—the world had remembered warmth.
Seraphina wandered through the small park across from her flat—if you could even call it a park. Just a few fenced-off lawns edged with neatly trimmed hedges, paved pathways winding between them, dotted with benches. She liked to stroll the paths before resting on one of the seats near the statue of King Alfred outside the university. These benches had proper backs, unlike the flat ones elsewhere.
Settling down, she tilted her face toward the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. A little girl, no older than four, with crooked blonde pigtails, shrieked with laughter as she chased pigeons. Her mother sat on a nearby bench, glued to her phone.
A man in pale trousers and a navy jumper took a seat opposite Seraphina, watching the child too. Eventually, the mother tucked her phone away and led the girl off, leaving nothing to distract him. His gaze flicked to Seraphina. He stood and approached.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting a polite distance away. “I’ve seen you here often. Local?”
*Here we go. Old man trying his luck*, she thought but said nothing.
Undeterred, he stayed. “I live just there,” he gestured. “Spot you from my balcony sometimes. Spent my whole life by this university—student, lecturer, retired now.”
“You taught here?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Once upon a time. Pensioner’s life now.” Seraphina nodded vaguely.
“Lovely weather at last. You’re widowed, then? Always see you alone.”
*Sticking like glue, isn’t he?* But loneliness gnawed at her. Better than talking to the furniture.
“Divorced, years back. Then he died,” she admitted, surprising herself.
“My wife passed two winters ago.” His eyes lifted to the sky as if searching for her there.
The conversation drifted to children and grandchildren. Seraphina learned his son lived abroad, his daughter in London. When his wife was alive, their home had been full—crowded, noisy. Alone, he’d refused to burden his children, staying stubbornly independent.
“You look so well kept—thought you lived with family,” she offered.
“I manage just fine. Not so hard if you can be bothered.”
“I should go. There’s a programme starting soon,” Seraphina lied, rising.
Truth was, she never watched telly—just feared he might pry. But he stood too, mentioning books instead.
“Me too,” she perked up. “Though my eyes aren’t what they were—large print only now.”
“I’ve stacks of those. Fancy me bringing one next time? Got a whole library. Could pick something to your taste.” Seraphina shrugged and said goodbye.
*Dream on. Next time indeed*, she thought on the walk home.
Yet she spent the evening replaying their talk. Next day, she dressed carefully and returned to the park. He was already there, waiting by the statue, a book beside him in a carrier bag. Spotting her, he rose with a smile. Her pulse quickened; her face softened.
Soon, Seraphina found herself impatient for their daily walks, fussing over lipstick and outfits. Time, they realised, was not kind to the old. One bright morning, they agreed not to waste it. She moved into his spacious flat—far roomier than her own.
From then on, they were inseparable. Walks in all weathers, shopping trips, evenings reading together. At first, Seraphina braced for whispers—*what’s she playing at, becoming some old man’s nursemaid?* But Edward could cook, clean, mend things. They shared chores. Years passed, and she couldn’t imagine life without him. Who knew the twilight years could hold such peace?
“Simmy, we ought to marry,” Edward said one evening. “This living in sin’s not right.”
“Don’t be daft. At our age? Making a spectacle for the neighbours? What if the children object?”
“Children?” He snorted. “When did your daughter last ask how you should live? Mine didn’t consult me. We shan’t ask them either.”
“Still…” she wavered.
He brought it up often, but Seraphina always stalled.
“Look at us—bones creaking, sands running out, and you want a white dress?” She’d laugh.
Then her daughter called, circling the point before landing it.
“Mum, so you’re still with that Edward? Not coming back? Thing is, Simon and my Mark don’t get on. Thought he could move into your place for a bit? He’s got a girlfriend—lovely girl. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
Tanya had divorced Simon’s father years ago, remarried last year. Now her grown son clashed with the new husband.
“Course he can stay. No sense an empty flat. Not marrying her, then?”
“Mum, please. They’ll get there. So he’ll move in tomorrow?”
Seraphina agreed—what else could she do? Family was family.
A year later, she was dusting while Edward vacuumed when he bent to unplug it—and collapsed. The paramedic’s words stung: stroke.
In hospital, his pleading eyes held hers.
“I won’t leave you. Don’t fret. We’ll manage. Soon you’ll be home.” She hesitated. “Should we call the children?”
Panic flared in his gaze. She understood. “No, you’re right. No need to trouble them.”
And they coped. Seraphina bathed him, fed him, read to him. Sometimes she took him to the park, his frail steps leaning heavily on her arm. But he faded, and one rainy midnight, he was gone.
She called his children. At the funeral, his daughter paced, sharp words slicing the air.
“You did this. Love at your age? Just after his flat, were you?”
“Leave it, Lily. Dad was happy with her,” his son cut in. “Thank you, Seraphina. But you weren’t married. You’ll need to move out. Hope you’ve somewhere to go.”
She blinked at the flat. Her home for years. Her curtains, her dishes—
“Could I keep this?” She pointed to the book he’d brought that first day, and his portrait.
“Take them.”
Back in her old flat, her grandson’s face fell at the sight of her. Soon she overheard him:
“Your gran living here now? Heard her snoring last night. And yesterday I walked out in shorts—her look could’ve turned me to stone.”
*Old? I’m only sixty-five!*
She rang Tanya, voice brittle.
“Mum, I’ve just started living! Simon’s grown, I’ve remarried. And now you? Why didn’t you wed him? They couldn’t have thrown you out then. You expect me to take you in? How’s that meant to work?”
“But it’s my flat. Or am I to go begging?”
Silence.
A solicitor confirmed her rights—no one could evict her. But sharing with Simon? A court case? Or trying to swap the tiny flat?
“Sue my own grandson?”
Simon glowered. She issued her terms: adapt or leave. His girlfriend packed up first. Then Simon, hurling words like stones.
Seraphina bit her tongue. Youth had time to rebuild. This flat was earned.
“See, Edward? This is what we raised.” She traced his photo. “Yours cast me out. Mine washed her hands. Miss you, Ted.”
Days stretched, dull and solitary. She visited their bench, half-dreaming he’d join her. Sometimes he did—in sleep, murmuring things she’d forget by morning. Later, she’d shoo him away.
“Go on. Not my time yet.”
How rare it is, she thought, for two to walk life’s whole path side by side. So often one lingers—useful until they’re not. Then come the care homes, the quiet resentment, or worse: dying heartsore and unseen.
