Seven long years had passed since the earth swallowed Lydias body. Seven years of silence ringing louder than any music, and loneliness seeping into the walls of the house like the stubborn scent of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not old, not young, just hovering between two shores: behind him, a life once full of love and noise; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt cursed him with ill healthhis body, toughened by years of labour, still held strengthbut his soul was cracked and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully. Hed cared for her until her last breath, until the final tear slipped down her gaunt cheek. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in this wide, empty world. No childrenGod hadnt granted them anyso theyd lived soul to soul in their own little universe, bounded by the edges of their village.
Lydia had been the sun of his small planet. Her warmth filled the house; her hands made the best roast dinners, pies so light they melted on the tongue. She ran the householdthe dairy cow, the chickens, a calf fattened each year for winter meat. The vegetable patch was her kingdom, ruled by perfect rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His work was the outer defence: ploughing, digging, fixing what broke. He was the fortress walls; she was its heart.
A man gets used to anything. Even silence. At first, it pressed on Stevies ears, made him flinch at every creak of the floorboards. Then it became background noise. Boring? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? Fates will wasnt something to argue with.
The village women, of course, took notice. Stevie was a sturdy, capable man with a well-kept home and no heirspractically a winning lottery ticket in their eyes. Matchmakers came hinting; some, still young enough, outright proposed starting a family. But he brushed them off like persistent flies.
“I miss my Lydia,” hed explain, staring past their heads into nothing. “Shes watching from up there. Wouldnt approve of me bringing another woman under her roof.”
In truth, his thoughts ran deeper: *To live together, thered need to be a spark. A drop of affection. And there isnt. Maybe Im not ready. My soul hasnt thawed.*
After Lydias death, he sold the cowwhat use was all that milk to one man? A good Guernsey, shed given two pails a day. Selling her to a neighbour had felt like betrayal, as if hed abandoned another piece of Lydia. But he kept raising a calf each summerfor meat. So he lived: his own beef, his eggs, milk borrowed or bought from Martha next door, who watched him with silent pity.
Stevie limped. Long ago, a stubborn mare had shattered his leg. The bone set crooked, but hed shruggedno time for fussing. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a cane appearedoak, carved, a gift from Lydia. No one remarked on his hobbling now; it was just how things were.
That afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table, alone, ladling freshly boiled stew into a deep bowl. Summer heat hung thick, the air shimmering over the fields. The back door stood wide open, letting in lazy waves of scorching air. Then a shadow crossed the sunlit rectangle on the floor.
“Alright, Stevie! Didnt knockdoor was open, so I let myself in!” boomed Tom, his neighbour two doors down, voice louder than a church bell. Tom was younger, brimming with energy and schemes Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Alright,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the hob. Throw in some spring onionswont regret it. Join me.”
“Course! Love your stew. Hot as blazes out, but a good stews always welcome. Well cool off after!”
Between mouthfuls, Tom eyed Stevie like a hawk.
“Stevie, mate, you ought to remarry. No job for a manstanding over a stove. A wifed cook your meals, warm your bed, and well, you know.”
“Playing matchmaker now?” Stevie smirked. “Found me a bride, have you?”
“Would that be so bad? How longs a man meant to wallow? Youre picky for a widowercould be living it up with some beauty!”
“A wifes more than just *there*,” Stevie said quietly but firmly. “Needs to be a meeting of souls. To understand without words. One look, and its clear.”
“Oh, *souls*!” Tom waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Who cares about souls at your age? What matters is someone to look after you, fetch your tea if youre poorly. Think ahead!”
“Ahead?” Stevie set down his spoon. “You reckon Im some doddering old fool, ready to shack up with the first woman who nods? No, Tom. Ive still got a choice. And Ill live as I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that! No offence,” Tom backpedalled. “Just looking out for you! Got an aunt, seeAgatha. Over in Willowbrook. Fiery woman, sharp as a tack. Keeps pigs, geese, a heifer. Handsome, too. Names Agathaproper, solid. Visited her last week. Lively, full of life, and alone. Fancy a drive? Meet her. If you click, job done. Bring her back here. Eh?”
“Whats in a name?” Stevie sighed. “Sharing a roof means work. Modern women love themselves more than labour. Will she dig potatoes, tend livestock? They want pampering now, carrying about on a throne. Im no prince. And at my age, courting feels daft.”
“Oh, come off it! Ill go with you. Shes familywed *practically* be related! You know me, I know you. Wed get on like a house on fire!”
The conversation stretched into evening. Wearied by Toms insistence and his own flicker of curiosity, Stevie relented. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Toms battered old Volvo.
When Tom left, Stevie stood in the hollow silence. The idea of remarriage, once abstract, now had weight. He scanned his homedust on the sills, cluttered with junk Lydia once kept. The floor, long unscrubbed. A mountain of dishes in the sink.
Next dawn, he rose as if prodded by some inner spur. He wiped the sills, tossed the clutter, mopped the floor until it gleamed. The smell of cleanliness lifted his mood. Then the dishes. He found an old bottle of washing-up liquid, squeezed out foamy swirls.
“Blimey,” he thought, watching plates shine under the tap. “Almost cheerful. Might as well do the mugs. Been ages since I spruced up.”
Saturday morning, Tom honked outside. Stevie wore his only suit, still decent despite smelling of mothballs and memories. The road was long, potholed. They arrived by noon.
Toms car rumbled to a stop by a leaning but sturdy fence. A woman stepped outpleasant-faced, mid-fifties, a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was broad, rehearsed.
“Finally! Lunch is going cold! What took you?” she called before theyd even shut the car doors.
Her familiarity froze Stevies veins. *Shes already decided*, he realised. *Theyve planned this without me.* His hand twitched toward the door handle, ready to order Tom back home. Then he heard her whisper:
“Hes *lame*?” Her eyes flicked to his cane.
“Just an old break, Aunt Agatha. Nothing serious,” Stevie said stiffly.
She approached, offered a hand. Her palm was soft, unnaturally smooth.
“Welcome, dear. Im Agatha,” she simpered.
He shook awkwardly. “Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie.”
The yard was immaculateneat beds, a freshly whitewashed shed. *Hard worker*, he noted. Inside, the same order. But the table stole his attention: roast potatoes with crackling pork, pickles, a stack of golden pancakes beside a jug of cream, cured bacon, chivesand crowning it all, steaming meat pies. *Generous*, he thought. *Pulled out all the stops.* Tom winked: *Told you.*
Agatha piled his plate, fluttering compliments:
“Oh, Stephen, what a *fine* man you are! So *trim* for living alone! And your limpwhy, its nothing! Tom said youre all by yourself?”
“Just me.”
“Children?”
“None. No wife, no kids. Lone as a stump. Hence the visit.”
“Oh, me too! All alone…”
The word *old* grated. He was elderly
