Chapter 1 - 1987
It was May 24th, 1987 - an ordinary Sunday in York, the kind that began with tea and silence. Dr. Emma Cunningham, thirty-five, elegant and reserved, stood in the kitchen of her ivy-covered house, cradling a warm mug between long, steady fingers. Her green linen dress brushed against her knees, her auburn hair swept into a practical bun that highlighted and eyes that had seen more than they let on. Tomorrow, she would begin her new post as a surgical resident at York's Children's Hospital. But today, the house felt like a patient unravelling in slow motion. "I'll be glad for the quiet".
Outside, in the backyard shed, her husband worked with quiet precision. James Cunningham, fourty-two, tall with an athletic frame now softening with time, wore his usual pressed white shirt rolled at the sleeves, his hair salt-and-pepper and always combed back. Once magnetic and articulate, he now spoke less, his voice often replaced by the metallic clang of tools or the drone of the radio. His face, though still handsome, had grown unreadable - like a well-sealed envelope.
James Cunningham came from old money - the kind passed down quietly through generations, wrapped in land titles, vintage wines, and an aging family name. His grandfather had made a fortune in railway steel; his father preserved it in property and silence. James never had to chase success - he had simply inherited it, along with the house, the cars, and the quiet expectation to do everything with dignity and minimal fuss.
At fourty-two, James still wore tailored shirts even on weekends, the cuffs always neatly pressed. His dark hair, streaked with grey at the temples, was always combed back, his shoes always shined - even in the shed. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and handsome in a reserved, editorial sort of way. But behind his cool blue eyes was a man difficult to reach.
In the early days, his steadiness had comforted Emma - he was the first man who didn't interrupt her mid-sentence, who didn't flinch at her ambition. But over time, that steadiness had calcified into distance. He admired order. She had grown tired of pretending things were still orderly.
Now, most of his hours were spent in the garden shed, where he fixed things that weren't broken and avoided conversations that were.
Emma met James Cunningham during her final year at Imperial College. He was a guest lecturer on engineering ethics, invited to speak on structure and sustainability - a topic Emma had no particular interest in. But there was something about his calm delivery and measured pauses that made her take notice. He approached her after the seminar, complimented her question about hospital ventilation systems, and asked if she'd join him for tea. It wasn't romantic, not at first. It was quiet. Civil. Predictable. For a woman used to fighting to be heard, James's attention felt revolutionary in its steadiness. He listened, without interruption, without envy. He brought her scones the following week. Asked nothing of her except presence. They married a year later in a simple ceremony by the river, both convinced they were choosing wisely. And for a time, they were as they declared..
But wisdom, Emma would later realise, isn't the same as passion. Over the years, what once felt like sanctuary began to feel like silence. James still listened, but with the distant politeness of a man hearing something he had already made peace with not understanding. Their conversations dwindled to schedules, maintenance, and polite observations. They occupied the same house like colleagues on parallel shifts - no arguments, but no intimacy either. He retreated to his shed; she to her thoughts. What they built together had been sturdy, respectable, admired. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being alive.
But now, as the twentieth century drew to a close, so too did Emma's illusions of permanence. England was shifting. Feminism no longer whispered - it marched. Technology was reshaping every institution, and women like Emma, once token trailblazers in white coats, were now expected to do everything: heal, mother, lead, endure. She rose through the hospital ranks with poise and precision - but at home, the air had grown still.
James still dressed impeccably. Still read the papers over tea. Still retired to the shed each afternoon, fixing hinges that didn't squeak. But the space between them had widened. What once felt like reliability now felt like a slow retreat.
Emma, who had always known how to survive, had begun to wonder: was survival enough?
Upstairs, their daughter Lily, eleven lounged in the hallway in ripped jeans and her father's old jumper. Slender, with hazel eyes and a defiant fringe, she carried herself with the restless confidence of someone both observant and perpetually unimpressed. Her voice floated down the stairs - laughing one moment, irritated the next - as she argued with Martha's grandson, Peter on the phone.
Peter was Lily's friend - loyal, soft-spoken, and often slightly out of place in the Cunningham household. While Lily met the world head-on with her fringe and sarcasm, Peter lingered on the edges, unsure of whether he was a guest or part of the family. His kindness was unmistakable. He helped with groceries and once spent an entire afternoon alphabetising Emma's cookbooks without being asked.
She'd come of age during England's feminist awakening, when magazines told women they could have it all - and quietly expected them to do it all, too. Emma had nodded along at university lectures on equality, raised her voice at just the right moment, and married a man who admired her mind - at least in the beginning. Now, her ambition was rarely questioned out loud, but it was often misunderstood. The hospital praised her composure, her precision. At home, James said little.
Their marriage had once been a shared ambition. Now, it was polite choreography - coordinated, efficient, quiet.
Still, Emma kept going. She managed her household like a second clinic: breakfast made, prescriptions written, laundry managed between surgeries. She never once allowed herself to unravel.
But this morning - this ordinary Sunday - something unexpected had arrived.
And he was standing on her doorstep.
York is one of England's functioning and charming cities. A large walled and medieval city filled with history as a young medical intern Dr Cunningham had gone up to York. Mrs Cunningham had redone the whole masters study in burgundy. The window of the study was blocked by vine wreath trees orange trees. Emma stretched her arms wide, she was glad for the quiet, no one had knocked on the door. She tried to work and get on top of all the endless emails and final notes of the day. She found life moved more slowly here, marked by the hourly chime of ancient bells and the rustle of leaves in the damp wind. It was the kind of place where you could breathe deeply - though not always easily. However she never stopped to take it all in. She wore a green emerald dress and tied her hair in a messy bun her go to without a brush, that flattered her high cheekbones and perfectly framed face..
And over time, that steadiness became something Emma could lean on. Something she mistook, perhaps, for permanence.
He stood in the doorway, framed by fading light and a trailing vine. His shirt was damp from the humidity, and his eyes scanned the room like someone arriving not for the first time, but the first time in a long while.
"Axel! Follow me. I will run and hide," called her daughter, Lily. Dr. Cunningham scarcely had time to finish writing. Oh! She's writing? So this is an imagined scene? "Well now," she said to herself, "the clock is only half-past seven. The kids should be ready for breakfast."
Matron Ashcroft had once been Emma's mentor at Imperial College - a brilliant, exacting academic with a dry wit and an almost obsessive reverence for precision. He taught clinical anatomy like it was poetry, each muscle and nerve a stanza to be memorised, respected. In her first year, Emma had feared him; by her final year, she had earned his respect - and perhaps, grudging admiration. He called her "the scalpel," for her sharp mind and sharper instinct.
Though they rarely spoke now, Emma still heard his voice in her mind during difficult decisions - dry, demanding, unyielding. He had shaped her, sharpened her, and left her with a standard she struggled to meet - even now.
Her mentor's voice echoed in her memory: Which mentor?? "Always take detailed reports, based on a thorough history and examination." "Dripping on the pages won't make the tumours go away," he remarked without looking up. She glanced sideways, a brow arched. "Neither will quoting textbooks aloud." she said. He was a man married to science, precise and principled. Emma admired that. She worked diligently - methodically - ensuring no detail escaped her attention. Critics didn't intimidate her. She embraced them. New women with their ideas and opinions were becoming exceedingly common.
. Again don't 'tell' us about her.
She considered heading to the medical library, but the day's chaos had other plans. Mistakes in the clinic were serious, yes - but today, her thoughts drifted to something even more unsettling. She recalled a recent mishap involving Dr. Nevil, a renowned oncologist, who made an erroneous incision and couldn't remove the tumor. The patient - fragile and unprotected - remained a cautionary tale.
But now, Emma's own house was closing in, thick with to-do lists, restlessness, and a gnawing sense of coming change.
James Cunningham sat at the far end of the long wooden breakfast table, as he did every morning - immaculate in his pressed Oxford shirt, reading The Daily Express with the same quiet intensity he gave to his carpentry plans. A silver watch glinted on his wrist, the same model his father had worn before him. He buttered toast with practiced movements, every gesture economical, restrained. Across from him, a soft-boiled egg sat cooling in its porcelain cup.
Emma poured herself tea, the kettle whistling between them like an awkward third guest. She caught a glimpse of his face, stern and unreadable behind the paper. No trace of affection. Just calm. Composure.
The egg cracked under his spoon.
Emma watched in silence, wondering how many mornings could be shared with someone who no longer looked across the table.
As she returned to her study she watched James on his small yacht bobbing on the river. It was early. She spread preserved jam and butter across a slice of bread while the boat rocked gently in the distance.
They still shared affection - brief, regular moments of intimacy. The rhythms of their marriage, like the waves beneath the boat, were steady but predictable.
She scribbled across her medical notepad, then paused. ."Where is that son of mine?" she called. "Go find Lily."
"Lily doesn't want to be found," Axel grumbled. "We shouldn't bother her."
Moments later, a letter arrived - handwritten, bearing Swiss postage.
Emma froze. She had missed Dear, Oliver and during his absence she was thankful for him sending a note.
Dear my friend Em,
I was in Melbourne briefly and thought of you. I heard about your position - you always belonged in surgery. I still remember that night in the ER, the way you held that child's head like it was made of glass. I just wanted to say congratulations and would like to visit on May 24th at 2pm. And I'm sorry for disappearing.
Love, Oliver
She folded the letter, tucked it into a book, opened her laptop, and typed a reply.
RE: Missed Connection.
She didn't send it. Just saved the draft. She was delighted.
The doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Martha Cornwall from next door.
Emma opened the door, smiling politely. "Thank you for the flowers, but I promised I'd pick some up myself."
"How long have I lived in York now? Fifty years?" Mrs. Cornwall laughed. "Heaven only knows why."
Emma glanced toward the garden and boating river. "There's James," she said. "Still perched in the shed, pretending to fix things."
Martha spoke in soft declarations, often pausing just long enough to let others reconsider what they thought they knew. Her blue dress clung gently to her frame, echoing the resilience of a woman who had weathered her share of storms. A few silver strands escaped her messy bun like rebellious thoughts. Her eyes - hazel and flecked with gold - saw straight through pretence.
"Emma? The reason I am here is I heard about your difficulties in marriage to James."
Emma wiped her brow. "I'm fine. Well that's what we all tell ourselves"
"No, you're not. I just meant. And you don't have to be. You know if you want to take a break from him, no one will think less of you. It's what you need."
Emma paused before answering. "I feel the humiliation of a failed marriage .Thank you for your permission."
Mrs. Cornwall studied her carefully. Then she pulled her into a hug. It felt like surfacing from deep water.
Later, the clinking of tools resumed from the shed - James's sanctuary of timber, screws, and cricket commentary. He was practical, dependable, and emotionally neutral. They'd married during her intern year. Not for passion - but for peace.
Then, the sound: a gushing rush, followed by a rising groan.
Emma raced downstairs.
Water surged from the laundry, snaking through walls like veins. She stepped into the flood, ankle-deep before she could stop.
"James!" she shouted. The shed door stayed closed. But by keeping him out of the scene we have no real drama.
Lily appeared at the top of the stairs, laughing, still glued to her phone. "Mum, the house is flooding."
"I noticed," Emma muttered, lifting a box of documents to safety.
The rain had started again by morning - not heavy, just a soft, steady tapping on the tin roof. Nice. The kind that made you move slower and breathe deeper. The house was quiet. The neighbours had come in early, and Timothy was already somewhere outside checking the guttering with a wrench tucked into his back pocket. Again, who is Timothy?
Axel wandered into the laundry to collect a few washed towels left. The room still smelled faintly of detergent and old wood. As he reached for the final towel, his hand brushed against a soft navy notebook balanced on the edge of the sink.
It was Emma's.
She often left things scattered - sketchpads, earbuds, loose earrings - but this was different. This was closed, bound, deliberate.
Axel closed the journal quietly. His hands were still, but something inside him had shifted.
He sat down on the edge of the laundry bench, staring at the window that faced the garden.
The truth was, he had always respected his father. He had even liked him, in that distant, noncommittal way men sometimes do when the world isn't asking for honesty. But reading Emma's words - seeing the way she had witnessed what none of them had said aloud - left him hollowed out and humbled.
Not angry.
Just... still.
He folded the towel, placed the journal carefully atop it, and stood. No theatrics. No need for confrontation.
The doorbell rang - sharp, unexpected.
Emma placed her cup down, the clink echoing in the still kitchen. James didn't move, didn't even glance up from his paper. Of course not. He never answered the door.
She wiped her hands on a linen cloth and walked through the front hall, passing old family portraits and sun-warmed floorboards. When she opened the door, the morning light caught the outline of a stranger.
He stood tall - broad-shouldered, sun-touched skin, a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, and a slight smear of dirt across one forearm. His boots were scuffed from real work, and in his hand, he held a wrench like it belonged there. Timothy Hale. New to the street. Rugged, self-assured, and quietly observant. The kind of man who fixed gutters without being asked and helped elderly neighbours with their bins before they knew his name.
"Sorry to bother you," he said, his voice low and warm. "Martha said you'd know where the stop valve is. Looks like your drain's backing up - and hers too."
Emma blinked, thrown by the easy confidence. "Ah. Of course. Come in. It's just... been a morning."
He smiled, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it. "Timothy Hale. Just moved in down the lane."
Emma took his hand. Firm grip. Calloused palms. Something unfamiliar stirred.
"Emma Cunningham. Welcome to the neighbourhood."
Chapter 2
By midday, Emma found herself absurdly behind schedule. But you haven't had her do anything! Lunch had not been started, the laundry was flooded, and James was still hidden away in his shed. The roast vegetables had been forgotten, the old wooden table half-set, and the frittata - the centrepiece of the lunch - was still a set of ingredients, not a dish.
"As I recall, Oliver is the most impatient man when he's hungry," she said aloud, half to herself, half to Lily, who lounged in the sun-drenched hallway. "Will lunch be ready before he returns from the city? Perhaps he'll tell us about his travels in Melbourne. Assuming he talks at all."
Her tone wavered - half playful, half resigned. She wasn't expecting an answer, only silence, which Lily offered freely.
With that thought, Emma returned to the kitchen and reached for the tomatoes. They were the size of her palm, soft-skinned with irregular dimples and streaks of gold. Picked only hours earlier from the garden, they'd sat ripening near the window like patient guests.
Frittata was more than lunch. It was memory - warm, herb-laced, sunlit. I don't know what this means.
"It's a sustainable way of eating," she once told Oliver during their university days, over coffee and badly cooked lentils. "Grow what you eat, eat what you grow." Those were the days of passionate debates, expensive textbooks, and long walks home from lectures. Professors often paused mid-sentence, thrown off track by Oliver's piercing questions and unruly charm.
Emma had been drawn to him then - drawn to his conviction, to the way he moved through rooms like they owed him something. She'd never quite understood whether she admired or envied him more. Nice.
Now, years later, his study remained untouched. A quiet gallery of books on plants, history, and biology. She never entered unless she had to. It had begun to smell like absence. Wait? How does she know about Oliver's study? Help ground us more! This is almost impossible to figure out who everyone is.
The kitchen, by contrast, bloomed with life. Coriander stems soaked in a glass on the bench. The soft thud of the fridge door. The sun streaming in through white shutters.
She rolled up her sleeves and pulled out the recipe card, its edges softened from time and splashes of olive oil.
Timothy.
She didn't turn immediately, recognising the warm lilt of his voice. It landed differently than Oliver's - less cutting, more curious. "Now the Cunningham way," she said, lifting a bowl. "Eggs first. Six. Farm-fresh, if possible. Room temperature." Wait! Didn't we already have this scene?
"And dessert?" he asked.
"Crystallised fruit," she said, smiling. "A nod to Mrs O'Sullivan from the orchard next door. She'd never forgive me if I let those pears go to waste."
She moved fluidly around the kitchen, narrating as if in a trance.
"Half a red onion, finely sliced. It goes into the pan with olive oil - low heat. Let it sweat. Then garlic. Then a handful of baby spinach. It only takes a minute."
The smell rose - sharp, sweet, earthy. Emma inhaled.
She poured in the egg mixture, scattered feta, halved cherry tomatoes, and a few torn basil leaves.
Timothy had wandered to the window but turned back at her pause.
"And the secret?" he asked, already smiling.
She met his gaze. "Let it set on the stove for one minute. Then straight into the oven - 180 degrees, eight minutes. Don't touch it. Let it settle."
The silence that followed wasn't strained, but something unspoken hung between them. The kind of silence that grows in the space of the present moment.
Timothy reached for a plate. "Is this the recipe that held your marriage together."
She glanced down at the skillet, golden now and puffed perfectly. "It did," she said, slicing a wedge. "For a while."
The Cunningham Frittata Recipe
Ingredients
? 6 large eggs (room temperature)
? � cup pouring cream
? 1 tbsp olive oil
? 1 small red onion, thinly sliced
? 1 garlic clove, minced
? 1 handful baby spinach leaves
? 2 giant heirloom tomatoes, sliced into thick rounds
? 100g feta cheese, crumbled
? A few fresh thyme sprigs
? Sea salt and cracked black pepper
? A few torn basil leaves (optional)
Instructions
1. Preheat oven to 180�C (350�F).
2. In a bowl, whisk eggs gently with cream, salt, and pepper.
3. In an oven-safe skillet, heat olive oil on medium-low.
4. Add onion and garlic. Saut� until soft - do not brown.
5. Stir in spinach and cook until wilted.
6. Pour egg mixture into skillet. Swirl to distribute.
7. Top with feta and tomato slices. Sprinkle thyme and basil.
8. Let set on stove for 1 - 2 minutes.
9. Transfer to oven. Bake 8 - 10 minutes, until golden.
10. Rest 2 - 3 minutes before slicing.
Later, with lunch mostly gone and glasses of cordial, Timothy leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach.
"Magnificent, Lily. Our beloved Oliver has arrived" Emma said to her daughter, who had somehow reappeared to steal the last corner of crust.
The door creaked open just as the last light of afternoon dipped across the tiled floor.
Oliver Duke stepped inside.
He wore a crisp navy blazer, collar popped slightly from the wind. Underneath, a linen shirt in slate grey, unbuttoned at the top, revealing the faint outline of a gold chain. His trousers were tailored, though creased from the train ride, and his boots - worn leather - spoke of a man who moved through both city pavement and garden with ease.
Oliver had been everything James wasn't. Unpredictable. Brilliant. Dishevelled in corduroy jackets and always carrying two pens - one for scribbles, one for philosophies. They had met in a crowded seminar on ethics and experimental medicine. He'd sat beside her with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a question on the morality of prolonging suffering. She answered sharply. He smiled. And from then on, they never seemed to stop talking.
Back then, they were all fire and theory - debating in stairwells, walking home in the rain without umbrellas, eating lentils on windowsills with no time for cutlery. He had once told her, "Emma, if I were ever to believe in fate, it'd be because of your handwriting."
The air shifted subtly. He paused at the threshold, surveying the room with the confident stillness of someone used to being the centre of it.
His eyes settled on Emma first, then flicked briefly to Timothy seated beside her desk.
No words - just a slow exhale.
He adjusted his cuffs, smoothed the front of his jacket, and said with quiet amusement, "I trust the flood didn't wash away all the help."
His tone was measured. Polite. But not without edge.
Timothy stood, his posture steady but unassuming.
Emma's gaze didn't falter. "Oliver," she said, voice neutral.
He stepped forward then, and as he did, the scent of his cologne - bergamot and vetiver - briefly filled the room. Familiar. Unchanged.
He reached into his coat pocket and placed something small and square on her desk - a folded newspaper clipping from The Age.
"I thought this might interest you," he said. "You were quoted."
She didn't look at it immediately. Instead, she nodded once. "Thank you."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable - but it carried weight. A history written in glances and gestures, more than in words. Okay, we seem to be in something of a scene.
Oliver adjusted the cuffs of his blazer again, this time slower.
Timothy's eyes flicked to a weathered booklet near the edge of the table. "What's the title of this marvellous work you have brought?" he asked Oliver, turning it over.
Emma squinted. "The Chronicle of TIMP-1."
Timothy laughed. "Where did you find such a thing? I didn't know it existed."
"I found the timeless treasure in a second-hand shop this morning," Oliver said. "Tucked behind a stack of antique textbooks. Reminds of me of our University days"
"Well then," Emma said, brushing crumbs from her lap. "Tell me more."
The storm outside had abated. The floor still bore marks from the morning's flood, but inside the kitchen, all was dry. All was warm.
"And despite the chaos," Emma said, "that was a very good lunch."
They took their cups to the veranda. The garden beyond was mottled in sunshine and shadow, as if undecided whether to offer light or more rain. Lily's laughter drifted from upstairs, the sound of a video call. James boat was visible from the side window, its mast gently swaying.
"Do you regret coming to help?" Emma asked suddenly.
Timothy didn't respond immediately. "No why?"
"I just didn't expect you to come."
They both took a sip. "I thought someone like you would be already be married"
Emma swallowed. "I thought you didn't care enough."
"I am a fool," he said quietly. "And I will pay for it."
They sat in silence, listening to the shrill cry of a galah overhead.
Then, footsteps. Light ones.
Lily appeared barefoot, holding her phone and a box of matches. "We're lighting a candle for Mrs. O'Sullivan," she said. "She lost her dog last night."
Emma rose instinctively. "I didn't know."
"I'll walk over later," Lily added. "I think she'd like to see you."
The idea of grief shared in something as small as flame struck Emma. She felt the familiar ache - of time passing, of people changing, of the small things mattering more than the grand ones.
Timothy stood. "I'll fix the rest of the guttering before dark."
Emma nodded. "Thank you."
As he stepped away, she watched his back: familiar, steady, unfinished. She runned her hand across his shoulders.
Now, their quiet meant something else. Choice. Pain. Possibility.
Emma turned to Lily. "Light one for me too, will you?"
Lily smiled. "Of course."
Just after the frittata was served and the first slices were being enjoyed, Martha arrived with a breeze of lavender and lemon in her wake. Her floral scarf trailed behind her like a flag of intention.
"You'll never believe the queue at the market," she declared, setting down a basket of bread still warm from the oven. "And don't get me started on the man who thought it acceptable to bring a parrot inside the bakery." Nice.
Emma chuckled, grateful for Martha's energy. "You always arrive when we need a bit of colour."
"I arrive when I smell thyme and feta on the wind," Martha said, sliding into the empty chair beside Timothy.
"You've met Timothy?" Emma asked.
"Years ago," Martha said, buttering a slice of bread. "When he used to wear that dreadful corduroy jacket. Didn't think I'd remember, did you?" Nice. She's a good character.
Timothy raised an eyebrow. "It was maroon. I thought it gave me character."
"It gave you static," Martha quipped.Nice.
Lily burst into laughter. "Martha, you're brutal."
"Truth is the first kindness," Martha replied, passing the bread basket to Lily.
Emma sat back, listening to them - all of them - and for a moment the weight in her chest loosened.
Martha turned to Emma, her tone softer now. "You're quiet, love."
"I'm thinking," Emma replied.
"Of the past or the future?" Again, this sounds too pointed - doesn't sound like realistic dialogue.
Emma considered. "Both."
Martha patted her hand. "Well, don't forget the present. That's where your feet are. That's where the frittata is."
Chapter 3
After lunch, Timothy excused himself with a glance toward the side door. He answered not a word the whole afternoon, and for very good reason.
"I should get back to the shed," he said, already rolling up his sleeves. "Some of the floodwater got into the laundry and carried half the boxes into the yard."
Emma nodded, her smile fading. "The shelves too, I think. Oliver's old microscope from university that I kept was there. I've just always had it"
Timothy disappeared through the back, the door swinging softly behind him. Outside, the garden was still damp, the lawn spongy underfoot. Light filtered through the gums in long golden beams. The shed, once pristine and orderly, now resembled a forgotten museum tossed by a careless hand. Again great description. I just wish I understood who everyone is.
A few storage tubs had cracked open, their contents half-soaked. Old plant presses, outdated biology journals, and a case of preserved insect specimens lay scattered across the floor. Emma followed him moments later, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
"I thought we lost them," she said softly, kneeling beside the wooden case.
Inside, pinned beneath a cracked sheet of glass, the specimens remained miraculously intact. A giant green beetle, iridescent and surreal. A dragonfly with paper-thin wings stretched wide in perfect symmetry. And tucked in the corner, the tiny silhouette of a fruit fly - D. melanogaster - its wings no longer than a petal's edge.
"They look like little time capsules," Timothy said, lifting the case gently. "Preserved forever in mid-flight."
Emma watched him, brushing dust from a frame of C. elegans slides - thin, near-invisible coils mounted on glass.
"It's strange," she murmured, "how something so delicate outlives the rest of the room."
They worked in companionable silence, salvaging what they could. The air smelled faintly of mildew, vinegar, and thyme - an odd blend of decay and dinner.
After a while, Timothy leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
He turned to her then, the afternoon sun casting half his face in shadow.
"I am not pretending with you."
Emma looked down, tracing a crack in the floorboards.
She stood slowly, brushing grit from her knees. The silence between them was different now - still full, but softer.
"Well," she said, clearing her throat, "we've salvaged most of it. I think that's a win."
Timothy smiled. "It's a start."
And as they stood there - surrounded by soaked journals, silver beetles, and silent memories - they both understood that some things, like insects in glass, don't decay. They wait. Quietly. For the light to return.
It was late afternoon when Peter appeared at the gate, his hair windblown, clothes damp, carrying the smell of salt and sun. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, leaving streaks of dried mud as he crossed the veranda. No one had expected him so soon.
"I saw the clouds break from the river," he said, setting down his bag beside the door. "Thought you might need help."
Inside, the house was a mixture of recovery and chaos. Towels lined the hallway. Boxes had been dragged to higher ground. The laundry floor was still slick in places, and the shed had taken the worst of it. Yet there was something comforting in the disarray - a family finding its footing again. Good description.
Lily was the first to see him. She looked up from the corner of the lounge room, where she had been sorting water-stained photo albums. "You came back early," she said, her tone caught somewhere between surprise and relief. Now we are in Lily's point of view.
James gave a small shrug, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. "Boat's safe. Tied her down near the west dock. Thought I'd see how the land was doing."
Emma emerged from the hallway, her arms full of damp linen. "You're a welcome sight," she said with a tired smile. "We've been salvaging all afternoon."
James nodded, already moving toward the laundry without waiting for instruction. "Where do you want me?"
He worked in silence, sleeves rolled, forearms streaked with dirt and soap. Within the hour, he'd cleared the debris from the back steps, helped Timothy re-stack the books in the shed, and quietly replaced the broken latch on the screen door that had clattered open during the storm.
In the kitchen, Emma paused over a cup of tea, watching Peter through the window. Notice that she does a lot of watching.
"He's steadier than he looks," Timothy said from behind her, a dish towel in hand.
"He always has been," she replied. "Like the tide. Never loud. Always arrives when you need him most."
As the evening settled in, the family gathered on the veranda with warm drinks. The air still carried the scent of damp earth, but the mood had shifted - lighter now, anchored.
Lily sat beside James, her head leaning briefly against his shoulder , one by one.
"Did you miss us?" she asked quietly.
James didn't look at her, just nodded once. "More than you'd think."
Timothy glanced toward Emma, then stood to fetch another blanket.
And for a few quiet minutes, no one spoke. They simply listened - to the breeze in the gum trees, to the soft creak of timber, to the steadiness of each other.
The sun had dipped below the hills by the time Emma returned home, her shoes dusty, her mind still trailing behind her. She had stayed longer at the hospital than planned, not because of duty, but because leaving meant confronting the quiet waiting in her own house.
But tonight, the quiet wasn't hollow.
Timothy had stayed. He was sitting on the back steps, sipping from a chipped mug, legs stretched long, boots muddied from the garden path.
"I didn't want to go just yet," he said, standing when he saw her. "I figured you might still need a hand."
"I do," she said, stepping toward him. "But not in the garden."
He smiled, then tilted his head. "Walk with me?"
She nodded.
They walked the gravel path that bordered the vegetable beds, their shadows long and soft in the dusk. The tomato vines had drooped under the weight of rain, but some fruit still clung, defiant. Beautiful. Emma ran her fingers along the tops of the plants, brushing droplets from the leaves.
"They survived the storm better than I expected," she said.
"So did you," Timothy replied.
Emma looked down at her hands - dirt still under her nails, cuticles raw from the day's work. "I wasn't sure I would."
He stopped walking and turned to her. "You don't have to carry everything."
She didn't respond. Not with words. Just a glance - open, honest, tired. And in that moment, she felt the kind of silence that doesn't press on the chest, but lifts it. The kind of stillness that isn't empty, but full.
A light flicked on in the house.
Lily stood at the kitchen window, watching them.
She saw her mother laugh softly, a sound she hadn't heard in weeks - maybe months. She saw Timothy reach for a leaf and hand it to her like it was a crown. Nice. And she saw the way Emma tilted her head, not in hesitation, but in ease.
Lily turned off the light again.
Somewhere between her own heartbreaks and coming-of-age confusions, she understood something important: Love doesn't have to be loud to be real. It just has to stay when things get messy. Very nice.
Outside, Emma and Timothy continued walking, the garden around them fragrant with crushed herbs and the faint memory of stormwater.
This time, neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to. She bid herself sleep.
Chapter 4
The next morning passed in a blur of white coats, corridors, and clipped greetings. Emma's office sat in its usual corner - sunlit, cluttered, and fragrant with eucalyptus from the diffuser Lily had gifted her. Oliver's invertebrate specimens hanged on her consultation room wall.
She tapped at her keyboard, half-focused on a patient file, when a knock startled her.
The door opened to reveal James, holding a bouquet of yellow tulips - her favourite, once. He stood stiffly, still in his pressed suit, shoes too clean for the hospital floor.
Timothy's lips curved into the faintest smile. I don't understand. I thought it was James standing there! "Then let's not waste another decade pretending we don't feel it." " I did think of you, often".
Emma reached out, her fingers brushing his hands across the desk. The leaf trembled slightly between them - fragile, like the truth they had long hidden, but still intact.
Outside, the afternoon light shifted through the window, casting shadows that danced on the floor like memories returning home.
"I'm scared," she admitted. "Of what it changes."
He nodded. "So am I. But maybe... maybe it's time we stop fearing the storm and start planting something that will survive it."
She stood. "Walk with me for a few minutes?"
Timothy rose without hesitation. "Always."
They stepped out of the hospital and into the stillness of a grey afternoon.
The path around the hospital garden was mostly empty apart from a delivery cart trundling by. Emma slowed her pace, her heels echoing softly against the stone.
"When I married James," she said, "I believed I was choosing stability. Safety." A bit too on the nose.
"You were," Timothy said. "You deserved that."
"But somewhere along the way, safety turned into silence."
They passed a row of camellia bushes, pink petals scattered like confetti on the pavement.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" Emma asked.
"I do. You were wearing those ridiculous blue rain boots, and you scolded me for calling a seminar 'pointless.'" There's a lot of reminiscing about the past. It doesn't really work to make this the main action.
"It was a good seminar," she said.
"No, it wasn't. But your passion made me wish it had been."
Emma smiled. "You always said the right things."
"Not always. Not when it mattered most."
A child's cry rang out from the emergency wing, sharp and sudden. Emma stopped.
"I had a patient this morning. Six years old. Appendicitis. She reminded me of Lily. So brave. So small."
Timothy waited.
"Just checking in. The lavender is blooming again. Though"I wanted to fix everything for her. And I realised - maybe I want someone to fix things for me, too. Or at least? stand with me in the mess."
Timothy reached for her hand. "Then let me."
They walked in silence for a while, past the surgical wing, past the staff cafeteria with its smell of toast and old coffee.
Emma's phone buzzed. A message from Martha.
"Call me later."
She smiled. Martha always knew.
Later that evening, as the light waned and the scent of eucalyptus faded, Emma stood in her office once more, staring at the pressed leaf Timothy had left behind.
She picked it up, held it to the window. The veins glowed amber.
She didn't know what tomorrow held.
But she wasn't afraid of it anymore.
And together Timothy and Emma they stepped out into the uncertain afternoon, toward whatever waited beyond the door - two hearts that had bent with time, but never broken.
