Seven long years had passed since the earth had taken Lydias body. Seven years of silence that rang louder than any music in his ears, and a loneliness that had seeped into the walls of his house like the scent of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not old, yet no longer young, as if frozen between two shores: behind him, a life once full of love and turbulence; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift of time toward its inevitable end.
God had not cheated him of health. His body, hardened by years of labor, still held strength, but his soul was broken and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully. He had cared for her until her last breath, until the final silent tear rolled down her withered cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the wide world. The Lord had granted them no children, so they had lived heart to heart, their own little universe bound by the lanes of their village.
He had grown used to Lydia being the sun of his small planet. She was the warmth that heated their home, the light that filled it with comfort. Her hands cooked the finest roast dinners, baked pies with pastry so light it melted on the tongue. She managed the household: the dairy cow, the chickens, a calf fattened each year so theyd have their own meat in winter. The garden was her kingdom, ruled by perfect rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His work was the outer defenseplowing, digging, mending what broke. He was the fortress walls; she was its heart and soul.
A man grows used to anything. Stevie grew used to the silence. At first, it pressed down, ringing in his ears, making him flinch at every creak of the floorboards. Then it became background noise. Boring? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? Such was fate, and against fate, a man could not fight.
The local women, of course, had taken notice. Stephen was a fine mancapable, with a house full of good things, and no children to complicate matters, which in the village was almost like winning the lottery. Matchmakers came, hints were dropped, some even outright offered to “start a family.” But he turned them all away, waving them off like bothersome flies.
“Im still mourning my Lydia,” hed explain to the neighbors, staring somewhere past their heads into emptiness. “She sees me from up there, from heaven. She wouldnt approve, I reckon, if I brought another woman into our home. She wouldnt want her memory clouded by someone else.”
But in truth, deep down, he thought differently: “To live together, there must be at least a spark. A drop of affection. And I dont have it. My soul hasnt moved on yet, hasnt thawed.”
After Lydias death, he sold the cowwhat use was so much milk to one man? A good Guernsey, she gave two pails a day, morning and evening. He sold her to a neighbor, his heart clenching as if hed betrayed another living thing tied to Lydia. But he kept raising a calf or two each summerfor meat. So he lived: his own meat, his own eggs, milk bought or given in pity by the neighbor Annie, who watched him with silent sympathy.
Stevie limped. Long ago, in his youth, a stubborn horse had broken his leg. The bone had set crooked, but hed shruggedno time for fuss. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a cane appearedcarved oak, a gift from Lydia. No one paid his unsteady gait any mind now, as though it had always been so.
That day, he sat alone at the dining table, ladling freshly boiled stew into a deep bowl. Summer heat shimmered outside, the air thick and heavy. The back door stood wide open, letting in lazy currents of scorching air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sunlit rectangle on the floor.
“Afternoon, Stevie! Mind if I join you? Door was open, so I let myself in!” The booming voice of Tom, his neighbor two doors down, rolled through the kitchen. Tom was much younger, brimming with restless energy and plans Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Afternoon,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the stove. Chuck in some spring onionswont regret it. Keep me company.”
“Dont mind if I do! Love your stew! Hot as it is, a proper meals always welcome. Well cool off after.”
As he devoured the stew, Tom eyed Stevie slyly.
“Listen, Stevie, you ought to marry again. No life for a man, stuck at the stove by himself. A wife could cook your meals, warm your bed, and well, you know.”
“You playing matchmaker now?” Stevie chuckled. “Found me a bride, have you?”
“Why not? How longs a man to grieve? Youre still sprycould have a pretty thing looking after you!”
“A wife isnt just someone to be there,” Stevie said quietly but firmly. “Souls have to fit. To understand each other without words. One lookand alls clear.”
“Oh, souls!” Tom waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Whats all this about souls? At your age, its about having someone to hand you a cuppa when youre poorly. Think of the future!”
“The future?” Stevie set down his spoon and looked Tom in the eye. “You think Im some doddering old fool, ready to shack up with the first woman wholl have me? Not likely, Tom. Ive still got a choice. And Ill live as I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that! No offense!” Tom backpedaled. “Just looking out for you! Thats why I brought it up. Got an aunt, seeAgatha. Over in the next village, Littlebrook. Firecracker of a woman! Not old, knows her way round a farm. Pigs, geese, a calf. And easy on the eye. Names Agatha! Visited her last week. Full of life, she is. All alone. Fancy a trip over? Meet her. If you like her, job done. Bring her back here. Eh?”
Stevie sighed. “Whats in a name? Living togethers the trick. Farming, working. Modern women love themselves more than work. Would she bother with the garden, the livestock? They want pampering nowadays. And Im no young buck. Feels odd, my age, chasing brides.”
“Ah, nonsense! Ill come with you. Shes familywell practically be kin! You know me, I know you. Well get on grand!”
Talk dragged on till evening. Wearied by persistence and his own flicker of curiosity, Stevie relented. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Toms battered old Rover.
When Tom left, Stevie sat in the deepening quiet. The idea of remarriage, once abstract, now had weight. He glanced around his house and saw it anew: dust on the sills, cluttered with useless trinketsjars, nails, dried leaves Lydia had once gathered. The floor, long unscrubbed. A tower of unwashed dishes in the sink.
Next morning, he rose at dawn, as if prodded by some inner whip. He wiped the dust, ruthlessly tossing the clutter. Scrubbed the floor, the fresh scent oddly lifting his spirits. Then tackled the dishes, digging out a long-forgotten soap, squeezing out thick, fragrant suds.
“Blimey,” he thought, watching plates gleam under the water. “Almost cheery. Might as well do the mugs. Been ages since I bothered.”
Saturday morning, Tom honked outside. Stevie wore his only suit, still decent though smelling of mothballs and the past. The road was long and bumpy. They arrived by noon.
Toms car stopped before a sagging but sturdy fence. A woman stepped out from the gate. Pleasant-faced, fifties, making her a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was broad, too rehearsed.
“Finally! Ive been waitingdinners going cold! What kept you?”
At her words, at her easy familiarity, Stevie went cold inside. He saw it thenhed been promised behind his back. His hand twitched toward the door handle, ready to order Tom to turn back. But then he heard her whisper to her nephew:
“Hes not crippled, is he?” Her eyes flicked to his cane.
“No, Aunt Agatha, just an old break, limps a bit. Nothing to it,” Stevie said stiffly.
She stepped closer, offering a hand. Her palm was unexpectedly warm, soft, as if never roughened by work.
“Welcome, dear. So glad youre here. Im Agatha.”
He shook awkwardly. “Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie, if you like.”
Glancing around the yard, he noted its tidiness: neat rows in the garden, a freshly whitewashed shed, not a scrap out of place. “Hard worker
