Margaret Ellis carefully spreads the old photos across the kitchen table, picks one up, and freezes. On the yellowed picture she is young, in a light summer dress, standing beside a tall man with a kind smileMichael.
How many years have passed? Forty? More? She slides a finger over his face as if she could erase the time, but the image stays unchanged, as still as memory itself.
Gran, whos that? her tenyearold granddaughter, Poppy, leans over her shoulder, her curious fingers already reaching for the picture.
That was an old acquaintance, Margaret brushes the girls hand aside. Lets look at these instead.
Poppy doesnt back down.
Why is he in the photo with you? Were you friends?
Margaret sighs.
Yes, we were. A long time ago.
Where is he now?
I dont know, she answers honestly.
And indeed she doesnt. The last time they met was in the very park where the photograph was takenHydePark, on a breezy summer afternoon. He had said he was leaving for a short work trip. Then the story began, the one that still makes Margaret wake up at night as if from a sudden jolt.
Did you like him? Poppy sits down, tucking her legs beneath her.
I liked him, Margaret admits.
Did he love you?
She pauses, thinking.
I think so. But
But what?
But life sometimes turns in such a way that even love isnt enough.
Poppy frowns, not quite understanding, and Margaret doesnt try to explain. How do you tell a child that some letters arrive too late, that some trains you cant catch even if you run as fast as you can?
Would you like to see him again? Poppy presses.
Margaret smiles faintly.
No, love. Some things are better left behind.
She puts the photo back in the box, but Poppy suddenly jumps up.
Gran, lets find him!
What?
Here! the girl points at Margarets phone, a device Margaret can barely tolerate. We can look him up on social media! Whats his name?
Poppy, stop
Michael, right? And his surname?
Poppy, enough! Margaret protests, but its too late. The girl is already scrolling, and deep down Margaret feels a strange yearning. She whispers his surname aloud.
She wonders if she wants to see his silver temples, hear his voice again, find out whether he still remembers that park.
Look! Poppy exclaims, eyes wide.
Margaret closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them.
On the screen is a man, his hair turning grey, laugh lines around his eyes, but the same warm smile.
Is that him? Poppy asks.
Margaret doesnt answer. She simply watches, her heart thudding as if she were twentyfive again.
Yes, she whispers. Its him.
Poppy beams. Shall we write to him?
Margaret shakes her head slowly.
No.
But why?
Poppy refuses to give up.
Grandma! she pulls at Margarets sleeve. Weve already found him! Lets just send a message: Hello, are you the Michael who
No, Margaret says firmly, though her voice trembles.
Why? You said you liked him!
It was a long time ago.
What if hes looking for you too?
Margarets pulse quickens. What if?
But no. Too many years have slipped by. Too much has changed. She is no longer the girl in the photograph.
Just let me see his profile! Poppy scrolls, eyes scanning pictures. Oh, look, he has a dog! And he looks to have a family.
Margaret turns sharply away.
You see? she says softly. He has his own life. I have mine.
Poppy falls silent for a beat, then suddenly shouts:
Grandma, lookhes coming to London next week! Hes a cellist, playing at a concert!
Margaret freezes. Hes here. Very soon.
We could go! Poppy hops with excitement. You love music, dont you?
No, Margaret snaps, standing up. Enough.
Later, after Poppy drifts off to sleep, Margaret opens his page again.
The post reads: Returning to my hometown after all these years. Strange feelingtime feels frozen. Below is a photo of HydePark.
The concert is on Saturday.
Margaret hesitates three times, but Poppy pleads:
Just hear the music! Even if you dont want to go near him, its fine!
The venue is nearly full. When he steps onto the stagea silverhaired man in a black jacket, a cello cradled in his armsMargaret clenches her fingers until the knuckles blanch.
He begins to play.
And the melody rings familiar.
Their melody.
The one he wrote for her that summer so long ago.
Poppy looks at her gran, eyes wide.
Gran, are you crying?
Margaret says nothing. She simply sits, tears streaming down her cheeks while the music flows like the time she can never get back.
After the performance, Poppy tries to tug her toward the backstage area.
No! Margaret pulls her hand away. I cant.
But he
Im not the woman he remembers.
She rushes outside, breathing in the cold night air.
Then a voice behind her calls, Margaret?
She turns.
He stands a few steps away, eyes wide as if hes seen a spectre.
Is that really you? he asks.
Margaret cant find words.
I saw you in the hall, he says, stepping closer. Thought I imagined it. Then
He pauses.
you wept, he finishes softly. And I understood.
Poppy steps back, giving them space.
You played that piece, Margaret whispers.
I play it at every concert, he replies.
They stare at each othertwo silverhaired people, eyes still flickering with the glow of youth.
Im sorry I didnt wait, she says.
Im sorry I didnt return sooner, he answers.
A small smile lifts Margarets lips.
Come on, she says. Ill introduce you to my granddaughter.
Poppy, hiding nearby, bursts into a grin.
At last.
