13May2025
I awoke with a heavy head and spent the morning staring at my reflection. The dark circles under my eyes, the pallor of my skin, and that crumpled slip of paper on the nightstandher addressmade me feel as though I were looking at a stranger.
If I go, Ill look like an utter fool. If I stay, I cant stop thinking about her, I whispered to myself.
In the end I took the car keys, turned onto the road and paused in front of a tiny flower shop on the high street of Canterbury. The roses seemed gaudy, the lilies mournful. Then I spotted a modest bunch of wildflowersdaisies and chamomilesimple, honest, much like her.
The cottage was at the very edge of the village, halfruined, its roof sagging, the garden choked with brambles. Yet a thin wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, and the air carried the scent of freshly baked bread. I knocked on the crooked door.
She opened almost at once. No headscarf, her blond hair pulled back, her face marked by scars she could no longer hide. Her eyes, however, were the same clear, blue, quiet eyes I remembered.
Good morning, I said, uncertain. Im here as I promised.
She gave a small nod, lifted the notebook on the table and wrote, Come in. The tea is ready.
The room was tidy, embroidered curtains hanging on the walls, shelves of books, and a kettle with two cups on the low table. The aroma of mint and warm bread filled the space.
She poured me tea and handed it over, then wrote:
I havent spoken in three years. The fire the house burnt. My husband didnt make it out.
My throat tightened.
I’m sorry I murmured.
She waved a hand.
Dont apologise. I just live here. Its quiet. Folks come by, buy herbs, and Im left alone again. Thats how I like it.
I stared at her for a long moment.
Then why give me the address?
She gave a faint smile and wrote:
Sometimes the foolishness of strangers is the only thing that can change a fate. You didnt look foolish. You looked ashamed.
A sad smile crossed my face. No one had ever seen me as I was nownot the businessman in a suit, but the man underneath.
From that day I began to visit often. At first to apologise, then to help, then simply to be present. I brought books, bought groceries, repaired the gate, fixed the old awning. Occasionally we sat on the bench outside her cottage in silence, the wind doing the talking, and that was enough.
Soon the notebook filled with brief lines:
Dont pity me.
I feel it when you smile.
If I could speak, Id still say little.
Three weeks later, as the sunset painted the sky pink, I turned to her.
I have another offer for you, genuine, not a quarrel.
She looked up and wrote:
Are you sure? Isnt it a pity?
No, its not a pity. It feels as if Ive spent my whole life waiting to meet you.
She hesitated, rose, stepped into the garden, and returned a minute later with a single daisy. She placed it on the table and wrote:
If in a week you feel the samecome back.
Exactly seven days later, at the same hour, I returned with the same bunch of daisies, a white shirt, and a quiet heart.
She stood in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands. When she saw me, she froze. I stepped forward slowly, took a small tin box from my pocket and said:
This isnt a game. It isnt regret. I simply want to staywith you.
She stared for a long beat, then wrote, trembling:
Yes.
A month later we married. No guests, no music, no dressjust the two of us and the faint scent of flowers drifting over the parish.
When Paul and Geoff heard about it, they could hardly believe it.
Have I gone mad, Andy? Paul shouted. Youre marrying a woman you barely know!
I do know her, I replied calmly. Better than anyone else. The rest Ill learn in time.
Six months passed. I gave up fishing. Evenings were spent on the verandah, sharing tea, listening to the hush. She never spoke, but her presence said more than any words could.
One morning she pulled out an old, charred box. Inside were photographs, letters, and childrens drawings.
This is all I have left of before, she wrote. But Im no longer afraid. I have found everything I need.
I embraced her and realised that my promiseto marry only for lovehad been fulfilled. Love, however, was not the noisy romance of films; it was quiet, genuine.
When spring arrived, I was again on the terrace, but not alone. She sat beside me, notebook on her lap, a mug of coffee in hand. She wrote:
Now I hear you even when youre silent.
I answered:
And I understand you even when you dont write.
That day I learned that sometimes silence can speak louder than any speech, and that listening with the heart is the truest kind of conversation.
