**By the Grave in the Rain**
A chilly autumn rain lashed against the muddy lane in the quiet village of Oakbridge. Edward Whitlock hunched his shoulders against the relentless downpour, trudging forward despite the slippery mud clinging to his boots. He wouldn’t stop. Not today. He had to be there—with his Margaret. Finally, through the grey sheet of rain, the outline of the village cemetery emerged.
“There’s her oak,” Edward murmured, his chest tightening.
He knelt by the modest headstone, uncaring of his soaked clothes. Rain dripped down his face, mingling with tears. How long he stayed like that, no one could say. But then, footsteps crunched behind him. Edward turned—and froze.
That morning had been damp and dreary. Edward stood at the bus stop in town, wrapped in his old overcoat. The bus was late, which only worsened his mood. Nearby, a girl laughed carelessly into her phone, oblivious to his scowl.
“Bit quiet, if you don’t mind?” he snapped before he could stop himself.
“Oh—sorry,” she stammered, lowering the phone. “Mum, I’ll call back, alright?”
An awkward silence followed. Edward instantly regretted his rudeness. He cleared his throat.
“Apologies. Not myself today.”
The girl smiled warmly. “It’s fine. This weather puts everyone on edge. I quite like autumn rain, though. That crisp smell—like the season itself breathing!”
Edward only nodded. Small talk had never been his forte. That had always been Margaret’s job—his wife. She handled everything, from bills to relatives, while he drifted along in his bubble, never questioning it. It had been comfortable. Now, without her, the world felt hollow.
Ignoring his silence, the girl continued, “In a way, the bus being late is lucky. Gives stragglers time to catch up—like my friend Kate. Not here yet.”
Edward almost scoffed at the idea that this was any consolation for standing in the rain. Then he remembered—forty years ago, if he hadn’t scrambled onto that bus in time, he’d never have met Margaret. What then? Would she have been happier?
Margaret had always found light, even in the gloomiest days. Her smile could thaw the iciest heart.
“I never even noticed when she was hurting,” Edward realised, tears welling.
To distract himself, he spoke again. “You heading to Oakbridge? Quiet place. Not much for young folk.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Visiting my aunt, Vera. You?”
“To see my wife,” he murmured. “It’s her home.”
“What’s her name? Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Whitlock. Margaret Elizabeth.”
The girl frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. “Sorry, no.”
“She moved to the city after we married,” Edward explained. “Only came back to visit her parents. Once they passed, she rarely returned.”
He fell silent, lost in memories. Margaret had loved Oakbridge. Begged him to visit as a family, but there was never time. Now there was time—but no family. Their son, James, had his own life now. No grandchildren to speak of.
“There’s Kate!” the girl suddenly exclaimed, waving. “Over here!”
Turning back to Edward, she grinned. “Now the bus’ll turn up.”
Sure enough, the bus lumbered around the corner. The journey to Oakbridge took two hours. Edward remembered when Margaret once missed the bus as a young woman—they’d wandered the city until dawn. Simpler times.
Then came the routine. They’d rarely argued—arguing with Margaret was like scolding a ray of sunshine. Her patience was endless. Yet Edward had taken it for granted, forgetting to cherish their moments.
If he could tell his younger self one thing, it’d be simple: **Hold onto her. Every day matters.**
As the bus rolled into the village, his pulse quickened. A line from some book echoed in his mind: *”Hell is forever nothing.”*
Rain still hammered against the windows. Edward rose stiffly. “This is me.”
He stepped into the downpour without looking back. The girl and her friend huddled under the shelter, watching. Spotting where he was headed, she called out, “Wait—that’s just the cemetery!”
Edward paused, turned—but said nothing. His silence spoke volumes. The girl understood.
The day Margaret left forever was seared into his mind. A petty argument. Him sulking, refusing dinner, shutting her out. She, ever the peacemaker, wiped tears away.
“Just popping to the shops,” she’d said. “Need anything?”
“Nothing,” he’d grumbled.
She’d walked out—and never returned. A car at the crossing. One moment, and Edward’s world collapsed.
Now, he sloshed through the mud, numb to the cold. Rain stung his face, yet he pressed on until he reached her grave. Sinking to his knees, he whispered, “Here’s your oak, love.”
Tears blended with rain. Time blurred—until footsteps crunched behind him. Edward turned. There stood the girl from the bus, drenched but smiling softly. An umbrella shielded her.
“Sorry to intrude,” she said gently. “But your wife wouldn’t want you catching your death. Come dry off at ours. You can come back after.”
Edward, leaning on her arm, straightened slowly. She added, “She loved you. I know she’d forgive you.”
“That obvious, eh?” he rasped.
“Guilt’s part of grief,” she said. “Everyone who’s lost someone knows. But don’t make her sadder by punishing yourself. Come on—you’re soaked through.”
Her words held a kindness Margaret might’ve spoken. Hesitant, Edward took a step forward—toward the faint warmth still tethering him to the world.
