The next morning Andrew stared at his reflection for a long time. He could barely recognise himselfdark circles under his eyes, a pallid face, and on the bedside table the folded slip with the address she had given him.
If I go, Ill look like a complete fool. If I stay, I wont stop thinking about her, he whispered to himself.
In the end he simply grabbed the car keys. On the way he stopped outside a tiny flower shop. The roses looked too flashy, the lilies far too melancholy. Then he noticed a bunch of wild meadow flowersdaisies and chamomile. Simple, genuine, just like her.
The cottage sat at the far end of the village, halfruined, with a sloping roof and an overgrown garden. Yet a thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, and the air smelled of freshly baked bread. Andrew knocked on the door.
She answered almost immediately. No veil, her blond hair pulled back, her face marked with scars she could no longer hide. But her eyesthose same clear, blue, quiet eyes.
Good morning, he said, unsure. Im here as I promised.
She nodded and, as before, pulled out a small notebook.
Come in. The tea is ready.
Andrew stepped inside. The modest room was tidyembroidered curtains hung on the walls, books lined the shelves, and on the table sat a teapot with two cups. The scent of mint and warm bread filled the air.
He sat down. She poured tea and handed him a cup, then wrote:
I havent spoken in three years. A fire. The house burned down. My husband didnt make it out.
Andrews throat tightened.
Sorry he murmured.
She waved a hand.
Dont apologise. I just live here. Its quiet. People pass, buy herbs, then Im alone again. Thats how I like it.
He watched her for a long moment.
Then why did you give me the address? he asked.
She gave a barely perceptible smile and wrote:
Sometimes a persons foolishness is the only thing that can change a fate. You didnt look foolish. You looked embarrassed.
Andrew managed a sad smile. No one had ever seen him that waynot through the suit and bravado, but as a man.
From then on he began to visit often. At first to apologise, then to help, then simply to be present.
He brought books, shopped for supplies, repaired the gate, mended the old porch. Occasionally they sat on the bench outside the cottage in silence, the wind doing the talking, and that was enough.
Soon the notebook filled with short lines:
Dont pity me.
I feel it when you smile.
If I could speak, Id still say little.
Three weeks passed. One evening, as the sunset turned the sky pink, Andrew turned to her.
I have another proposal. Genuine. Not a quarrel.
She looked at him and wrote:
Are you sure? Isnt this a pity?
No. It isnt pity. It feels as if Ive waited my whole life to meet you.
She didnt answer straight away. She rose, stepped into the yard, and after a minute returned with a single daisy. She placed it in front of him and wrote:
If in a week you feel the samecome again.
Exactly a week later, at the same hour, Andrew was back, carrying the same bunch of daisies, wearing a white shirt and a quiet heart.
She was in the kitchen, flour on her hands. When she saw him, she froze. He stepped forward slowly, pulled out a small box and said:
This isnt a game. Its not regret. I just want to stay with you.
She stared for a long moment, then wrote tremblingly:
Yes.
A month later they married. No guests, no music, no fancy dressjust the two of them and the scent of flowers drifting through the council estate.
When Paul and George heard about it they could barely believe it.
Have I gone mad, Andrew? Paul shouted. Youre marrying a woman you barely know!
I know her, Andrew replied calmly. Better than anyone else. The rest Ill learn with time.
Six months passed. He no longer went fishing. Evenings were spent on the veranda, sipping tea, listening to the hush. She never spoke, but her presence said more than any words could.
One morning she pulled out an old, singed box. Inside were photographs, letters, childrens drawings.
This is all thats left of my past, she wrote. But Im no longer afraid, because Ive found everything I need.
Andrew embraced her. He realized his promiseto marry only for lovehad been fulfilled. Love wasnt noisy, not like in the movies. It was quiet, real.
When spring arrived, he sat on the terrace again, but no longer alone. Beside him she held the notebook on her lap and a mug of coffee. She wrote:
I hear you now, even when youre silent.
He answered:
And I understand you, even when you dont write.
In that moment he learned that sometimes silence can speak louder than any word. The quiet they shared taught him that true connection needs no grand gestures, only the willingness to listen with the heart.
