A woman lives in a charming cottage. Nearby, in the flowerbed, hydrangeas and petunias bloom in a riot of purple, so vivid it takes her breath away.
She curls up on the garden swing, legs tucked beneath her, flipping through a book. In the oven, an apricot pie bakes, its sweet scent mingling with the mint from the bushes—so heavenly, it might as well be paradise.
She always knows exactly when he’ll arrive. That morning, she kneaded the dough, dreaming up new fillings for her pies. Roasts and sauces and stews never held her interest—but there’s magic in the way dough obeys her hands, shaping itself just right.
Funny. Once, it was her grandmother who baked. Now it’s her—and she’s no grandmother.
He never plans his visits. Time passes, and then—an ache in his chest, sudden and sharp. He always calls from the road.
He has nothing left. Just a past—two failed marriages, a son he barely knows, a move to Liverpool, his belongings stuffed into the boot of his car. A mess of memories, and years clawing his way out of anger and despair.
They met predictably. A beach party. Strangers among friends. His mate dragged him along; her sister persuaded her. Neither wanted to go. So they sat apart, out of place amid the laughter. Then he asked her to dance. Bought her a garish red rose from a wandering seller. Drove her home across the city.
And just like that—he panicked. Why risk his heart again?
But every time the emptiness becomes unbearable, he gets in the car and drives. Buries his face in her hair, murmurs *”Well, hello…”*
Lately, he catches himself thinking he could stay. Live here with her.
Once, he even said it. Her eyes flickered—hope, then resignation. *”Your choice. Whatever you decide.”*
Every parting feels like tearing flesh. He’ll walk to the gate, stop, turn back to kiss her. Try to leave again. Fail.
He regrets meeting her so late. Cherishes that he met her at all.
She pours tea into a tall mug, cuts the pie, sits across from him. Nothing extraordinary. His life once burned with passion, feverish nights. Yet here, in this quiet, steady love—scented with mint and strawberry jam (or raspberry, or marmalade)—he finds what he needs.
This time, he doesn’t wait for the weekend. Calls from the road, like always. Turns off his phone, cranks the music. Doesn’t hear the crash.
She’ll never know he was coming to stay for good.
He’ll never know his daughter’s eyes are the same piercing blue.
