My grandmother, Margaret Bennett, spread a stack of old photographs across the kitchen table, picked one up and froze. In the faded picture she was young, wearing a light summer frock, and beside her stood a tall man with a kindly smileMichael.
How many years had slipped by? Forty? More? I ran my thumb over his face, as if I could smooth away the years, but the image stayed as fixed as a memory set in stone.
Grandma, whos that? my tenyearold granddaughter, Ivy, asked, leaning over my shoulder. Her curious fingers were already reaching for the photo.
That was an old acquaintance, Margaret brushed Ivys hand away gently. Lets look at these instead.
But Ivy wasnt about to let it go.
Whys he in the picture with you? Were you friends?
Margaret sighed.
Yes, we were. A long, long time ago.
And where is he now?
I havent the faintest idea, she admitted honestly.
She really didnt know. The last time theyd met was in the very park where the photograph had been takenHyde Park, on a bright summer day. Hed said he was off on a short work trip and never returned. That was the start of a story that still haunts Margaret, waking her in the dead of night as if some unseen hand had shaken her.
Did you like him? Ivy settled herself on the chair, legs tucked under her.
I liked him, Margaret whispered.
Did he love you?
She thought for a moment.
I think he did. But
But what?
Life sometimes turns in ways that even love cant keep up with.
Ivy frowned, clearly not grasping the weight of it, and Margaret didnt bother to explain. How do you tell a child that some letters arrive too late, that some trains you simply cant catch, no matter how hard you run?
Would you like to see him again? Ivy pressed, eyes bright.
Margaret gave a soft smile.
No, love. Some things are best left where they belong.
She slipped the photograph back into the box, but Ivy sprang to her feet.
Grandma, lets find him!
What?
Come on! The girl jabbed her finger at the screen of Margarets old mobile, a device Margaret had always found a nuisance. We could look him up online! What was his name?
Michael, right? What about his surname?
Ivy, stop
But it was too late. Ivy was already scrolling, and Margaret felt a cold knot form in her throatdeep down she wanted this, too. She whispered his last name.
Would she want to see his silvered temples? Hear his voice again? Find out if he remembered that park?
Look! Ivy suddenly squealed. Grandma, look!
Margaret closed her eyes, then opened them.
On the screen was a man, hair turning grey, lines at the corners of his eyes, but the same warm smile.
Is that him? Ivy asked.
Margaret said nothing, just stared, her heart hammering as if she were twentyfive again.
Grandma?
Yes, she whispered. Its him.
Ivy beamed triumphantly.
Should we write him?
Margaret shook her head slowly.
No.
But why?
Ivy would not give up.
Grandma! she cried, grabbing Margarets sleeve. Weve found him! Lets just send a message: Hello, are you the Michael who
No, Margaret said firmly, though her voice trembled.
Why not? You said you liked him!
It was a long time ago.
What if hes looking for you too?
Margarets heart thumped. What if?
But no. Decades had passed. Too much had changed. She was no longer the girl in that picture.
Just let me see his profile, Ivy insisted, flipping through photos. Oh, look, he has a dog! And seems to have a family.
Margaret turned sharply away.
You see? she said quietly. Hes got his own life. Ive got mine.
Ivy fell silent for a heartbeat, then shouted:
Grandma, hes posting that hell be in our town next week! Hes a musician, theres a concert!
Margaret froze. He would be here. Very soon.
We could go! Ivy jumped, excitement bubbling over. You love music, dont you?
No, Margaret snapped up from her seat. Enough.
That night, after Ivy had drifted off to sleep, Margaret opened his page again.
The post read: Touring my hometown after all these years. Strange feeling, as if time has stood still.
Below it was a photograph of the very same park.
The concert was on Saturday.
Margaret hesitated three times, then Ivy begged:
Well just listen to the music. If you dont want to go up on stage, thats fine.
The hall was almost full. When he appearedgrey, in a black jacket, a cello tucked under his armMargaret clenched her fingers until the knuckles whitened.
He lifted the bow and began to play.
And the melody that rose was the one they had shared once, long ago, in a distant summerhis tune for her.
Ivy stared at her grandmother and gasped, Grandma, are you crying?
Margaret didnt answer. She sat still, tears tracing her cheeks, while the music poured out like a tide of moments that could never be reclaimed.
After the performance Ivy tried to pull her toward the backstage exit.
No! Margaret snapped, pulling her arm back. I cant.
But he
Im not the woman he remembers.
She slipped out into the cool night air, breathing sharply, when a voice called from behind.
Margaret?
She turned.
He stood a few paces away, eyes wide as if hed seen a spectre.
Is it really you? he asked, voice husky.
She could not form a word.
I saw you in the audience, he said, stepping closer. Thought Id imagined it, but then
He fell silent.
Then you wept, he finished softly. And I understood.
Ivy edged away, giving them space.
You played that piece, Margaret whispered.
I play it at every concert, he replied.
Two greyhaired strangers stared at each other, the flicker of youth still glinting in their eyes.
Sorry I didnt wait, she said.
Sorry I didnt return in time, he answered.
And then Margaret finally smiled.
Come on, she said. Ill introduce you to my granddaughter.
Ivy, peeking from the corner, let out a delighted squeal.
At last, everything felt right.
