The rake scrapes softly over the damp grass as he gathers the last of the leaves into a neat pile. The hydrangea bush, once wild and heavy with blooms, is now bare, its twisted branches silhouetted against the pale winter sky. The garden is still a little overgrown, but he’s making steady progress. Each stroke of the rake feels purposeful, even comforting.


He straightens, his breath clouding in the crisp air, and surveys his work. The compost heap stands at the far end of the garden, a mound of leaves and trimmings steadily breaking down into something new. He carries the pile over, tips it onto the heap, and brushes his hands off against his trousers.


As he walks back toward the house, he pauses at the back door. The garden still isn’t quite what it was, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore.

Inside, the warmth of the house greets him, a sharp contrast to the chill outside. He closes the door behind him, shaking off his boots. The cat hops down from the chair by the kitchen table, stretching luxuriously before padding over to him. It winds itself around his legs, purring low and content. He leans down, scratching it behind the ears, and it responds with a soft, affectionate meow.


“Still the boss of the place, aren’t you?” he murmurs, a faint smile on his lips.


He pulls off his boots, setting them neatly by the door, and slides his feet into his slippers, the worn soles soft against the kitchen floor.

In the kitchen, the kettle on the hob lets out its high-pitched whistle, steam curling into the air. It’s an old-fashioned thing, a wedding gift from Jean’s mother, still reliable after all these years. He turns off the gas, pours boiling water into his mug over a teabag, and leans against the counter while it steeps.


His gaze drifts to the cluster of photos on the wall above the table. Their wedding day, nearly sixty years ago: her in her lace dress, him looking impossibly young in his stiff suit, both of them laughing like they had the world at their feet. Another photo, taken just a few years ago, on holiday in the Canary Islands: the two of them holding hands, the setting sun turning the ocean into molten gold. She’s glamorous as ever, even at 75, with her sun hat and sunglasses. He looks sunburnt and slightly ridiculous, but he’s smiling like he hasn’t a care in the world.


He stirs his tea, scoops out the bag, and adds a splash of milk. His spoon clinks softly against the side of the mug as he stirs again and sets it down by the sink.


“Are you really just going to leave that there?” Jean’s voice asks, teasing but warm.


He chuckles softly, picking up the spoon and rinsing it before placing it neatly on the drainer. “You win,” he mutters under his breath, smiling.


Mug in hand, he walks into the living room, the soft shuffle of his slippers against the floor the only sound. The cat follows close behind, hopping up onto the sofa the moment he sits down. It curls up in his lap without hesitation, its purring filling the quiet room.


He wraps his fingers around the warm mug, the heat seeping into his palms. Closing his eyes, he breathes in the earthy aroma of tea, allowing a moment of peace to wash over him. The ache is still there, a quiet companion, but so is something else. The weight of grief doesn’t feel as heavy now. The house feels less empty.


The cat shifts, settling deeper into his lap. He strokes its fur absently, his gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the last light of the day fades, and the garden lies still under the deepening blue of winter.


“I’ll get to the roses next week,” he murmurs.


The cat stirs, its tail flicking against his hand as though agreeing.


He takes a slow sip of tea, his hand resting gently on the cat. The quiet fills the room like a soft blanket, comforting rather than oppressive, as the cat purrs gently in his lap.