The most crucial moment of the ceremony arrived, and the groom abandoned his bride, strolling off with another. The flat was cramped, its wallpaper peeling in tiny floral patterns. A stale scent of an old iron and faint cat musk drifted in from the hallway. Rosie perched on the very edge of the bed, untangling her shoes while her legs ached after a gruelling shift. That morning the clinic had received a husky with a deep knife wound. The lads from the nearby village explained, He got into a scrap near the abandoned cottage. Rosie asked no more questions; the priority was that the dog lived.
She slipped off her coat, hung it neatly on a nail, and pushed aside a curtain that hid her tiny kitchen nook: a kettle, a tin of buckwheat, and a single cracked mug. From the wall opposite came a torrent of swearingneighbors from flat three. Rosie had long stopped listening. She flicked on the old radio, Retro FM, poured herself tea and settled on the windowsill, staring at the yellow pane across the street. It was an ordinary evening, one of countless similar ones.
Dust, old iron and cat smells filled the air. The radio crooned a love song from the late80s. The buckwheat porridge cooled in the mug. Rosie watched the opposite windows, where it seemed someone had just come home: stripped off a coat, hung it, and sat at a table. A solitary figure, just as alone as she wasperhaps not in a council block, though.
She traced a finger along the cold glass and gave a quiet smile. The day had turned strange: first the injured dog, then him.
He appeared just before lunch, cradling the bloodsoaked husky, yet he looked surprisingly composed. No hat, a light coat, his glasses fogged. The waiting room was crowdedsome people nervous, some shouting. Rosies eyes landed on him immediately, not because he was handsome but because he remained calm. He walked in as if he knew exactly what to do.
Do you have a surgeon on duty? he asked, looking straight at her. Shes still alive.
Rosie didnt answer, just nodded and led him toward the operating theatre. Gloves, scalpel, bloodhe held the dogs ears while she stitched the wound. He never flinched.
After the procedure he followed her into the corridor. The dog lay under an IV drip. Arthur extended his hand.
Arthur, he said.
Rosie, she replied.
You saved her.
We she corrected herself.
He managed a faint smile, his gaze softening.
Your hands didnt shake.
Its a habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the doorway, seemed about to say more, then handed her a slip of paperjust in case. Rosie slipped it into her pocket and forgot it until evening.
Later, she retrieved the scrap of paper lying beside her keys. The number was neatly written in blue ink: Arthur.
She didnt yet know it would spark something larger. A warm feeling rose inside, first like a hot cup of tea, then like spring breaking through winter.
The number remained unwritten on any list, tucked on the tables edge, nearly lost among other notes as she washed dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strangeif he called then, He wont. People like that never call.
The next morning she was ten minutes late for work. In the reception area a grumpy old lady with a pug and a hooded boy were already waiting. The usual shift: injuries, flea bites, infections. By lunchtime her back no longer complained.
At three oclock he returned, this time without the dog, holding two coffees and a bag of pastries. He stood by the door, shyly smiling like a schoolboy.
May I?
Rosie dabbed her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
Youve got no excuse now
Actually I do. Id like to thank you and ask if youd like a walk after work, if youre not too tired.
He didnt press, didnt rushjust asked and left the choice to her. That made things a little lighter.
She agreed. First just to the bus stop, then they wandered through the park. He walked beside her, chatting about how hed found the dog, why hed chosen their clinic, where he lived. He spoke plainly, without pretence, though his coat was clearly expensive and his watch not cheap.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
Im in IT. Honestly, its dullcode, servers, projectors, holograms he chuckled. Id love a job like yours. Something real, gritty, alive.
Rosie laughed, the first genuine laugh of the day.
He didnt kiss her goodbye. He simply took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.
Two days later he returned, this time with a leashthe dog was discharged.
That was the start.
For two weeks he turned up almost dailybringing coffee, picking up the dog, or just saying, I missed you. At first Rosie kept her distance, laughed too loudly, answered too formally. Gradually she let her guard down. He became part of her routine, a warm extra shift rather than a draining one.
The flat grew cleaner. She stopped skipping breakfasts. Even the senior tenant on the floor once remarked, Rosie, you look fresh these days, and smiled without her usual sharp edge.
One evening, as Rosie was about to head home, Arthur waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos in hand and a satisfied grin.
Ive stolen you, for good, he said.
Im tired.
Especially now.
He ushered her into his carnot forceful, just confident. Inside the scent of citrus and cinnamon filled the air.
Where are we going?
Do you like stars?
What do you mean?
The real night sky. No streetlights, no city smog.
They drove about forty minutes out of town. The road turned black as ink, only the headlights carving the edge of the pavement. A disused fire tower stood in a field. He was the first to climb, then helped Rosie up.
At the top it was cold but silent. Above them stretched the Milky Way, a few aircraft, slowmoving clouds.
He poured tea from the thermos, no sugarjust as she liked.
Im not a romantic, he admitted. I just thought that after all the pain and shouting you see daily, you might need to breathe.
Rosie was silent. Inside she felt a strange sensation, like a cracked bone finally knitting back togetherpainful yet right.
What if Im scared? she asked suddenly.
I am too, he replied simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time without doubt thought, Maybe it isnt all for nothing.
A little over a month passed. He didnt take her to fancy restaurants or buy rings. He simply showed up on Saturdays, drove her to the market, waited after her shift, helped carry dog food. Once he lingered at the clinic while she assisted in surgery, then asked, If you werent a vet, what would you want to be? and listened as if her answer mattered.
Rosie still lived in her modest flat, handwashing her laundry, rising at 6:40am. New details appeared: his sweater on her hanger, his key on the communal hook, his coffee left on the stovethe very brew shed never bought before. She found herself turning at every hallway rustle, hoping perhaps hed appear.
One day the clinics heating failed. Rosie was used to shivering on the job, but Arthur arrived early, during the lunch break, clutching a compact heater.
Your fridge looks like its about to freeze, he said, setting the device against the wall. Dont want you catching a cold.
Im not fragile, she replied, yet she turned the heater on.
He lingered at the doorway, as if he didnt want to leave.
Listen, he said unexpectedly, being near you feels oddly calm, almost too calm. Weird, isnt it?
Nothing odd, she shrugged. Thats just me.
He smiled, stepped closer, and gave her a gentle, nonpossessive huglike the kind you give someone you trust completely. She didnt pull away; she leaned in, resting her head on his chest. In that moment she realised he was the person she could trust, like a dog lying beside you not because its trained, but because it feels safe.
From then on he lingered longersometimes staying the night, sometimes waking early to brew coffee while Rosie yawned over her mug, complaining about being late. She tried to keep her old distance, but it faded; he became a quiet, steady presence, almost from within.
One night, as she was about to leave, he said, Youre the only person I can truly trust. You know that?
She knew.
Youre the only person I can truly trust, he repeated, then walked away.
Rosie stood by the window, watching his car pull out of the drive, its indicator blinking into nothing. Only later did she realise his words sparked anxiety, not joya feeling of being singled out and left alone.
The next day a text arrived: Friday mothers dinner. Id like you there. No pretence, just meet. She stared at the screen, then replied briefly, Alright.
On Friday she wore a grey dress shed saved from a postgraduate course, tweaked her mascara, gathered her hair. An assistant brought her a pair of pearls.
Put these on. Theyll add a touch of elegance, she said, halflaughing.
Thanks, Ill try not to get tangled up in the cutlery, she replied.
The house was glass and stone. A Swissstyle gate opened as if greeting a VIP. Arthurs car was already parked. He met her at the door, gave a light hug that felt oddly ordinaryhe was nervous but hid it well. He took her hand and led her inside.
Lavender and a sharp perfume perfumed the foyer. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, slender pendant lights glowed like needles, the floor shone like a mirror. Inga Sinclair, a tall woman in a dark navy dress, appeared as if stepped from a portrait, her smile never reaching her eyes.
Good evening, Rosie, she said. Arthur has spoken of you. Please, come in.
Rosie shook the offered hand. Good evening. Thank you for having me.
Of course. Its always a pleasure to meet those who influence our sons choices.
A modest spread covered the tablethree dishes, five sets of cutlery, a single waiter. Rosie felt like a decorative piece in a museumbeautiful but out of place. Arthur tried to steer the conversation toward movies, holidays, the husky, but Inga redirected it toward art, galleries, and a new collection by a woman named Eleanor she claimed Rosie didnt know.
Rosie nodded, kept polite, but inside she sensed she was a temporary guest, a footnote between larger events.
When Inga rose, she tossed off, Arthur tends to make impulsive decisions. Itll pass.
Rosie met her gaze directly. Im not a passerby. Im real. Believe what you will.
Inga raised an eyebrow. Well see.
After dinner Arthur drove her home. The silence in the car was thick enough to be felt. By the entrance he took her hand.
Sorry.
For what?
That all this feels more about them than about you.
Rosie nodded. And Im about myself. Dont worry.
He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, almost a farewell.
Back in her flat, she removed the pearls and placed them neatly on the table, suddenly realizing there would be no place for her in that house, even if he were near.
A month later, Arthur began arriving later than usual, citing work, projects, something broke in the system. He didnt pull away, but he hesitated, as if at a crossroads. Rosie tried not to think about it. Love, she told herself, meant getting through anything. She wasnt perfect, and neither were the galleries.
Then he came one Friday with a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, and a silver box. She was in her coat, hair damp from a shift.
I love you, he said, dropping to one knee. I dont care about anyone else. Will you be my wife?
Rosie laughed through tears, then hugged him and asked, Are you sure?
Youre my yes, he answered.
They planned a quick wedding. Arthur insisted on a nofrills celebrationjust a loft, music, a buffet. She borrowed a simple dress from a colleague, lacey but a bit loose, as if it were hers. She didnt invite many friends, only Aunt Gail, who had raised her.
Rosie, my blood pressure is spiking, Im sorry. No time for weddings, Gail replied. Its not for you.
On the wedding day Rosie rose at five, ironed the dress, applied makeup at a small mirror, drank tea while looking out the window. Her heart hammerednot from joy, but from something else, like standing on the edge of a jump.
When she arrived at the venue, the doors opened to a scene straight out of a film: white ribbons, live music, mimosa centrepieces. Photographers clicked, waiters floated champagne. An arch of flowers stood at the far end, with Arthur underneath in a bright suit, smiling.
She walked forward, throat tight.
He looked at her
Then he turned.
He walked past her, heading toward a woman who had just entered with a man in an expensive suit. Tall, wellkept, wearing a champagnecoloured dress.
Eleanor, he said, youre my bride. My love.
Rosie stood beneath the arch, her dress suddenly out of place. A cold settled over her shoulders.
He glanced back. Sorry, youve walked into the wrong hall, he joked, and applause erupted.
Someone shouted, Bravo!
Rosie remained frozen, watching him embrace Eleanor, watching Inga kiss her cheek, watching guests capture everything on their phones. It was a performance, and she was an accidental extra.
She turned, her dress snagging the doorway, her shoes clacking against the stairs. A guard shouted something, but the noise was swallowed by the roar of her own pulse.
She ran. The shoes slipped, the dress tangled, and she burst out of the hall into a street drenched in spring rain. Asphalt glistened. A woman in heels hobbled by, teenagers smoked under an awning. No one looked back.
She kept walking, not caring about direction, past crossings, courts, shop windows, laundries. People stared out of curiosityrarely did they see a bride in tatty makeup and a dishevelled veil.
At a business centre she tried to sit on the curb, but a security guard stepped out and gestured, Sorry, you cant be here. Move on.
She nodded, walked away, barefoot, leaving her shoes by a flowerbed, as if her old life had been shed.
She sat at a bus stop. Cars whizzed by, carrying strangers destinies; hers now felt foreign.
A black 4×4 pulled up. The door opened slightly, and a voice asked, Excuse me youre Rosie, arent you?
She looked up. A man in his sixties, neatly dressed, worried expression, seemed familiar yet distant.
I dont remember you, she said softly.
He stepped out, leaned forward. Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I had a heart attack. Everyone walked past. You stopped, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand.
Rosies memory flickereda cold, a siren, her missing a bus, saving a man.
It was you, she whispered.
Yes. Ive been looking for you ever since, to thank you. You left, and Ive been trying to find you. He glanced at her damp dress, her tearstreaked face. Come in, please.
She got into the car without asking why; she had nowhere else to go.
Inside smelled of leather and fresh mint. He introduced himself as George Whitaker. He didnt pry, just offered a warm blanket and turned up the heater.
After a while he said, I live just outside town. My son needs someone. Not a nurse, not a carerjust someone who wont turn away. Who isnt scared.
He looked into the rearview mirror. I dont know what happened to you, and Im not asking you to explain. If you want, come with me. Rest, then decide what to do next.
Rosie watched the rain splatter the windshield. Somewhere in a loft shed left, a kettle whistled. She nodded. Alright, Ill go.
The house he took her to was plain brickno statues, no music, no guests. Only the scent of fresh bread, the quiet crackle of a fireplace.
In the hallway Rosie still wore her soaked dress. George handed her his late wifes shirt. She changed in the bathroom, washed, looked at herself in the mirrorher eyes still lived.
He brought tea to the kitchen, poured two cups, and began to speak.
My son is Vadim. Thirtyone, lost a leg in a crash six months ago, the other barely saved. He used to be a climbing instructor, now he barely talks. Caregivers quit; he either rejects them or drives them away.
Why did you think I could handle it? she asked.
Because when I was surrounded by dozens, you chose the hard thing. You didnt pick comfort. You did what needed doing.
They climbed the stairs. George knocked, Vadim? May I?
No answer. He opened the door.
The room was bright, a panoramic window. Vadim sat in a chair, pale, sharpShe placed her hand gently on his shoulder, and in that simple touch both realized they had finally found a place where broken hearts could begin to heal.
