The following morning Andrew lingered long before the washbasin mirror. He could scarcely recognise the gaunt face staring backdark crescents under his eyes, a pallid complexion, and on the nightstand lay the crumpled slip of paper bearing the address she had given him.
If I go, Ill look a complete fool. If I stay, I wont be able to stop thinking of her, he whispered to himself.
At last he took the car keys and set off. On the winding lane he paused before a tiny florists shop. The roses seemed too flamboyant, the lilies far too mournful. Then a modest bunch of wildflowers caught his eyedaisies and chamomile, plain and honest, just like her.
The cottage stood at the far end of the hamlet, halfruined, its roof sagging, the garden overgrown. Yet a thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney and the air was scented with freshly baked bread. Andrew pushed open the gate and knocked.
She answered almost at once. No veil, her russet hair pulled back, her face marked with lines she could no longer hide. Yet her eyesstill those clear, blue, quiet eyesheld the same gentle light.
Good day, he said hesitantly. Ive come as I promised.
She gave a small nod and, as before, drew out the little 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 space.
He sat down. She poured the tea and handed him a cup, then wrote:
I have not spoken for three years. A fire. The house burned. My husband could not get out.
Andrews throat tightened.
Excuse me he murmured.
She waved a hand.
Dont apologise. I simply live. Its quiet here. Folks pass by, buy herbs, and I am left alone again. It suits me.
He watched her a long while.
Then why did you give me the address?
She smiled faintly and wrote:
Sometimes peoples foolishness is the only thing that can change a fate. You did not look foolish. You looked ashamed.
Andrew managed a sad smile. No one had ever seen him through those eyesnot through the veneer of a suit, but through the man himself.
From that day he came often. At first to apologise, then to help, and eventually just to be there.
He brought books, ran errands, mended the gate, fixed the old leanto. Sometimes they sat together on the bench before the cottage, silent, while only the wind spoke, and that was enough.
Gradually new short lines appeared in the notebook:
Do not pity me.
I feel it when you smile.
If I could speak, I would still say little.
Three weeks passed. One evening, as the sunset painted the sky pink, Andrew turned to her.
I have another proposal for you. A true one. Not a quarrel.
She looked up and wrote:
Are you certain? Is it not pity?
No. It is not pity. It feels as if I have waited my whole life to meet you.
She did not answer at once. She rose, stepped into the garden, and a minute later returned with a single daisy. She placed it before him and wrote:
If in a week you feel the samereturn.
Exactly seven days later, at the same hour, Andrew appeared again, bearing another bunch of daisies, a white shirt, and a quietly hopeful heart.
She was in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands. When she saw him, she froze. He stepped forward slowly, produced a small tin box and said:
This is no game. It is no regret. I simply wish to stay. With you.
She stared for a long moment, then wrote trembling:
Yes.
A month later they were married. No guests, no music, no elaborate dressjust the two of them and the faint fragrance of flowers drifting from the village green.
When Peter and George heard the news they could scarcely believe it.
Have you gone mad, Andrew? Peter shouted. Youre marrying a woman you barely know!
I know her, Andrew replied calmly. Better than anyone else. The rest I shall learn with time.
Half a year slipped by. He no longer went fishing. Evenings were spent on the verandah, drinking tea and listening to the hush. She said little, yet her presence spoke louder than any words.
One morning she produced an old, charred box. Inside lay photographs, letters, childs drawings.
This is all that remains of my past, she wrote. But I am no longer afraid. I have found everything I need.
Andrew embraced her. He realised his promiseto marry only for lovehad been kept. Yet love was not noisy, not the sort shown in the pictures; it was quiet, true.
When spring arrived, he again sat on the terrace, but no longer alone. Beside him sat she, notebook on her lap, a cup of coffee in hand. She wrote:
Now I hear you even when you are silent.
He answered:
And I understand you even when you do not write.
At that moment he understood that sometimes silence can speak louder than any word.
