The air carries a bite now, the sharpness of autumn in full flight. Above, the hornbeams are nearly bare, their few remaining leaves clinging stubbornly, golden against the branches. A squirrel darts across the path, its tail flaring as it stops to dig frantically at the edge of the gravel. Further down, another clambers up a tree, pausing halfway to chatter loudly at nothing.


Overhead, a skein of geese passes, their calls sharp and rhythmic, fading as they disappear toward the horizon. He tilts his head slightly, watching their flight. The sky is a pale, washed-out blue, streaked with thin clouds, but darker ones gather low on the horizon, promising something heavier to come.


The first drops of rain are so light he almost misses them, a faint patter against the ivy draped over his shoulders. He adjusts the folds of his blanket, the movement automatic, as a breeze stirs through the hornbeams above, their nearly bare branches creaking softly. The pot creaks slightly as he shifts, his hands tightening on the rim.


Overhead, the sky deepens in colour, the pale blue streaked with grey, and the wind carries a sharpness now, teasing loose the last stubborn leaves clinging to the trees. A mother hurries past with a pram, her scarf pulled tighter around her neck.


“Storm’s coming,” Jean says, her tone light, almost teasing.


He doesn’t reply, his gaze lingering on the darkening horizon. The air smells damp, tinged with the faint scent of wet earth. He glances at the cat curled in his lap, undisturbed, its tail flicking lazily as though mocking the quiet urgency of the wind.


“It feels like one of those Sundays, doesn’t it?” Jean says again, a touch more wistful this time.


His hands press firmer against the pot, his knuckles pale against the plastic. He doesn’t answer, but his mind drifts to the same place hers has gone—to that October morning, so sharp and vivid it might as well be playing out in front of him.


The sun spilling over the garden, the crisp coolness of an October morning. He’d gone out early to fetch the paper, just as he always did. The newsagent had smiled, handed him the same crossword book he picked up for Jean every week.


The image sharpens, and he sees himself walking back through the front gate, hearing it creak faintly behind him. The house looks the same as always—small, familiar, and quiet. The low hum of the world waking up surrounds him: birds calling, the faint sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the street.


The breeze quickens, scattering the leaves at his feet, but his mind stays locked on that morning.


“Jean?” he remembers calling out as he unlocked the door. His voice was light, almost playful. He kicked his shoes off in the hallway, hanging his coat on the hook. “I got your crossword,” he said, “and I picked us up some of those biscuits you like—the chocolate ones!”


He paused, listening for her response. The house felt still, too still, but he brushed the thought away. “Jean?” he called again, walking toward the kitchen.


The rain begins to fall faster now, a steady patter against the gravel path. The cat stirs in his lap, its ears flicking as it glances toward the darkened sky.


The kitchen door had been ajar, the faintest breeze slipping through. He muttered under his breath as he spotted a half-finished cup of tea and her hearing aids on the table. “I told you to keep your aids in; you can’t hear a thing without them.” He pushed the door open, the paper and biscuits still tucked under one arm.


He stepped through the back door. A narrow alleyway of flagstones ran alongside the house, damp with dew. The breeze carried the faint scent of soil and flowers. At the end of the path, the garden opened up—a rectangle of neatly trimmed grass bordered by flowerbeds and shrubs. The hydrangea bush near the edge of the lawn was full and heavy, its late-season blooms a burst of colour against the greenery.


He noticed her feet first, just visible behind the bush, the toes of her gardening shoes pointing downward as though she was kneeling.


His breath caught. “Jean?”


The hydrangeas obscured the rest of her, their blooms dipping low, almost brushing the grass. He stepped closer, his pace quickening. The paper slipped from his arm, forgotten.


“Jean? Are you alright, love?”


Then he saw her. She was lying face down on the grass, the secateurs still in her hand.


Thunder cracks overhead now, and the rain pelts down, soaking through the ivy draped over his shoulders and the blanket beneath. Heavy droplets run in rivulets down his face, blending with the tears he can’t hold back. His hands grip the rim of the pot, knuckles white, as though holding on will anchor him against the storm inside and out.


The cat hops down from his lap, landing lightly on the gravel. It stretches, its fur slick with rain, and turns to look back at him, its green eyes gleaming in the dim light.


“I always hated storms,” Jean says, her tone steady, almost conversational. “Hated being caught in the rain.”


He doesn’t move, his chest constricting, breaths shallow as the past overwhelms him. The rain lashes down, soaking the gravel and pooling in uneven patches. The cat takes a few steps forward, then pauses, shaking the water from its fur before retreating under the bench. It curls its tail tightly around its body, eyes fixed on him, and lets out a sharp, insistent meow.


“It wasn’t a great look for me, was it?” Jean continues, a faint humour threading her tone. “I wish I’d picked a better dress for that day.”


He closes his eyes, the rain streaming down his face, stinging his skin. His hands tremble as they grip the pot. “Stop,” he whispers, shaking his head.


“It’s been a year,” Jean says gently, her tone soft and steady, like she’s coaxing him toward something he doesn’t want to face.


“A year,” he echoes, his voice cracking, barely audible over the pounding rain. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to…” He trails off, the words choking in his throat as his chest heaves with uneven breaths.


“You’ve done it,” she says, her voice firm but kind. “Every single day. You’ve done it, even when it felt like you couldn’t.”


His grip tightens on the rim of the pot, his knuckles white. “I just… I don’t want to let you go. You made everything work, Jean. You always did. The garden, the house—us. I can’t even keep weeds out of the beds. The bloody weeds, Jean. You wouldn’t believe how bad they’ve gotten.”


Jean’s voice softens, but there’s an edge to it. “Oh, stop that. You’re not useless. The house is still standing, isn’t it? The roof’s not caved in. The hydrangeas didn’t explode just because I’m not there.”


“I left a saucepan on the hob last week. Forgot about it. Burned the bloody thing black.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “You’d have torn me to pieces for that.”


“No, I’d have laughed my head off,” she says dryly. “Then I’d have told you to buy another one. Honestly, you make me sound like some sort of domestic tyrant.”


“You were perfect,” he says, his voice breaking. “You kept everything running. And now it’s just… falling apart.”


Jean’s tone hardens. “Don’t give me that. You’ve always done more than you think. You just don’t see it because you’re too busy beating yourself up. You’ve got no idea how much I leaned on you, do you?”


He shakes his head, tears mingling with the rain streaking down his face. “Strong? Me? I’ve been sitting in a bloody plant pot for months, Jean. That’s not strong. That’s pathetic.”


“No,” she says simply, her voice steady. “That’s grieving. You lost me, love. That’s the hardest thing anyone can face. And yet here you are, still breathing, still getting up every day—even if it’s just to sit in a daft costume. That’s strength.”


The rain grows heavier, drumming harder against the gravel. A faint rustle draws his attention—the cat, appearing like a ghost from the undergrowth. It steps onto the path, its fur flattened by the rain, and pauses to watch him. Its green eyes gleam with something close to expectation.


“And don’t forget,” Jean continues, her tone lightening, “I robbed the cradle for you. You’ve still got good years ahead of you, you know. I didn’t marry a lump of moss; I married you because you’ve got grit. You were supposed to look after me, remember?”


He snorts bitterly. “Didn’t get the chance, did I?”


“No,” she admits softly, her voice closer now. “But you’ve still got the chance to live. You can’t waste it sitting here.”


He looks at the cat, standing in the rain. It twitches its ears, shakes its fur, and takes a tentative step closer. He feels its eyes on him—bright, alive, persistent.


“Jean, I…” He falters, his voice shaking. “I don’t know how. I don’t know how to do this without you.”


Her voice is warm, filled with love but edged with her trademark teasing. “You’re stronger than you think. And honestly, you never needed me as much as you thought. That was half the fun, you know—watching you figure it all out.”


The cat meows softly, almost drowned out by the storm. It steps closer again, its tail flicking like a question mark.


“You’re not letting me go,” Jean says gently. “You never will. I’m here, always. But you don’t need to stay here, love. I wouldn’t want that for you.”


He squeezes his eyes shut, leaning forward until his forehead presses against the pot. His shoulders shake, his breath coming in broken sobs. For the first time, he lets it out—the weight of everything he’s carried, the endless ache he’s tried to hold back. The storm rages around him, but it feels smaller somehow, less suffocating.


“You don’t need me here,” she says after a long moment. Her voice is quiet but unyielding. “Not anymore.”


“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers, his voice cracking.


“No,” she replies, a soft laugh in her voice. “But you are.”


The cat meows again, louder this time. It steps forward, its fur slick with rain, and pauses just in front of him, its tail flicking once, twice. He stays frozen, his breath catching in his chest. The cat turns, taking a few more steps, and looks back at him.


“Come on,” Jean says, her voice warm with encouragement, tinged with the faintest laugh. “You’ll catch your death!”


The rain slows, fading to a soft patter, and the wind loses its edge, a whisper now instead of a howl. He feels the weight on his chest loosen, just slightly, as if the storm has pulled something from him and left a quiet space in its wake.


The cat watches him from the path, its green eyes unblinking, tail flicking. It doesn’t meow this time, just sits there, waiting. He looks at it, then at the pot he’s left behind on the bench, the ivy draped over its sides.


“You’ve never been one for doing things halfway,” Jean’s voice says softly. “If you’re going to walk, walk.”


He takes a deep breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs. His legs ache as he takes the first step, the gravel crunching under his boots. The cat rises, turning toward the path ahead, and starts walking. It doesn’t run or dart off, just ambles, tail high, glancing back occasionally as if to check he’s still following.


Step by step, he moves forward. The bench and the pot grow smaller behind him, lost in the shadows of the hornbeams. He doesn’t look back.

The cat pauses at the edge of the park, where the path gives way to pavement. It waits, sitting primly as if weighing a decision. He slows, his breath visible in the cool air, and stares at the little creature. Rain drips from its whiskers, and it gives a single, sharp flick of its tail before trotting across the street in the same direction he’s heading.


He reaches the gate of his house, the familiar creak of it opening filling the silence. The garden beyond is overgrown, the hydrangeas bowed under the weight of the season’s neglect. He hesitates, his hand resting on the gate, unsure if he’s ready to go back inside.


A soft sound draws his attention—the cat brushing against his leg. It doesn’t wait for an invitation, slipping through the gate and padding up the path. It pauses at the front door, looking back at him as if to say, “Well?”


Jean’s voice echoes gently in his mind, warm with humour. “He’s braver than you are, you know.”


He lets out a soft laugh, the first real sound he’s made all day, and follows. The key turns in the lock with a familiar click, and he pushes the door open. The cat steps inside without hesitation, its tail held high as it explores the narrow hallway.


He closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, his breath steadying. The cat has already made itself at home, sniffing the baseboards and the edges of the furniture.


Jean’s voice murmurs softly, almost a whisper now. “You’re not alone, love.”


He watches the cat settle on the worn rug by the radiator, curling into a perfect circle, its purring audible even from across the room. For the first time in a long while, the house doesn’t feel quite so empty.