Teds Shorts - A Series of Short Stories

Delayed Hearts 

Lizzie stood beneath the clock, her suitcase beside her, an umbrella dripping at her feet. Her conference folder, embossed in blue with ‘National Learning Futures Forum’, was damp at the edges. She had spent the day listening to people half her age describe the future of digital education with all the enthusiasm of those still convinced that progress alone could save the world. She admired them, in a way, but the endless jargon had left her weary. She was forty-three and, if she were honest with herself, she was tired, not from work, but from the quiet ache of being unseen. 

Her husband, Mark, worked from home most days, his world revolving around spreadsheets, forecasting models, and graphs. He spoke the language of efficiency, not affection. They used to laugh, years ago, before the numbers took over. Now, their evenings passed in silence, him at his laptop, her reading in another room. Companionship had been replaced by co-habitation, love by habit. 

Across the concourse, Jack adjusted his tie, checked his phone, and sighed. His train to  Portsmouth had been delayed — severe weather on the line. He had spent the day at a supply-chain management conference, which had left him with a headache and a stack of promotional pens. At fifty, he looked older than his years — not from hardship but from a certain kind of carefulness. He had learned long ago to keep the peace, to keep things tidy. His wife, Caroline, was meticulous, in her house, everything had its place, and Jack’s role was to ensure he didn’t disturb the order. She was proud of her home, proud of her position in the neighbourhood, proud of the way people said, “You must be so lucky to live there.” Jack sometimes wondered whether anyone had ever asked her if she was happy. 

The station loudspeaker crackled with another announcement: “Due to adverse weather conditions, all southbound services are subject to delay. We apologise for the inconvenience.” 

Lizzie looked up at the clock again. Half past six. The rain outside beat against the glass roof like impatient fingers. She sighed and, for no reason at all, smiled faintly, a small, resigned smile at the absurdity of being stranded in a place designed for motion. 

Jack noticed her smile. He had been glancing around for somewhere to sit, but her quiet composure drew his attention. There was something familiar in the way she held herself , not lonely exactly, but alone in a way that felt deliberate, practiced. On impulse, he said, “Seems we’ll be here a while.” 

Lizzie turned, startled, then returned his smile. “Yes. Apparently, the south has vanished under water.” 

“That’ll be typical,” Jack said. “The one night I don’t bring a coat.” 

She laughed softly. “That’s optimism for you.” 

They fell into conversation, first about the weather, then the conferences they’d attended, and soon the strange rituals of railway waiting: the tea that tasted of cardboard, the announcements that contradicted themselves, the endless staring at departure boards as though one might will a train into existence. 

There was an ease to it, the kind that only arises between strangers who expect nothing from each other. 

After half an hour, Jack said, “Would you fancy a drink? There’s a pub just outside — the King’s Arms, I think. We might as well wait somewhere warm.” 

Lizzie hesitated only a moment. “Why not? The trains aren’t going anywhere.” 

They stepped out into the drizzle. London glowed, wet pavements reflecting headlights and shop signs, umbrellas bumping like dark mushrooms in the crowd. Inside the pub, the air was thick with warmth and chatter. They found a small table near the window, ordered G&T  for her, and a lager for him. 

As they talked, the world outside seemed to fade. Lizzie learned that Jack worked in logistics for a marine engineering company, that he once wanted to be an architect, that he loved sailing but hadn’t been on the water for years. Jack learned that Lizzie taught adult education courses in Winchester, that she once wrote poetry, that she kept a notebook in her handbag but hadn’t opened it in months. 

One drink became two. They shared stories about childhood, about holidays long gone, about the peculiar disappointments of middle age, not dramatic ones, but the small erosions of self that happen quietly when nobody’s looking. 

“You know,” Lizzie said, tracing the rim of her glass, “I sometimes feel invisible. Not in a tragic way. Just… unnoticed.” 

Jack nodded slowly. “I know exactly what you mean. At home, it’s as if I’m part of the furniture. Useful, but not essential.” 

They laughed, though it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was the kind of laughter that hides an ache. 

The rain outside grew heavier, hammering against the window. The pub filled with people seeking refuge from the storm. By nine o’clock, Jack checked his phone, their trains were still delayed, and neither seemed in a hurry to check again. 

“Dinner?” Jack asked. “There’s an Italian across the street.” 

Lizzie smiled, her eyes bright. “That sounds lovely.” 

The restaurant was small, candle-lit, the air rich with garlic and roasted tomatoes. They shared a bottle of Chianti, plates of pasta, and the comfortable rhythm of conversation that felt both new and strangely familiar. The rain outside blurred the world beyond the window, turning the city into an impressionist painting of lights and motion. 

At one point, Jack said quietly, “If you could do anything, what would you do?” 

Lizzie thought for a moment. “I’d write again. Not for anyone else. Just for me.” 

“You should,” he said simply. “You still can.” 

She smiled, moved by the sincerity in his tone. “And you?” 

“I’d build things,” he said after a pause. “Something lasting. Not spreadsheets and delivery reports. Something real.” 

They fell silent for a moment, both aware of how easily this conversation had become something more than polite small talk. There was a spark between them, unspoken but undeniable, a recognition of kindred spirits who had stumbled, quite by accident, into each other’s orbit. 

When dessert arrived, tiramisu and coffee — Lizzie’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen: Mark (Home). She hesitated, then answered. 

“Hi,” she said lightly. “Yes, I’m still in London. The trains are a mess… No, I think I’ll stay over, just to be safe. I’ll find a hotel near the station… Yes, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Jack watched her expression, calm, composed, a touch of guilt quickly hidden. He understood without words. When his own phone rang moments later, he excused himself and stepped outside. 

“Hi, Caroline. Yes, I’m fine. Weather’s awful. All the trains delayed. I’ll probably just stay up here and come back early… No, don’t wait up.” 

When he returned, Lizzie looked at him across the table. Neither spoke. The decision had already been made, though neither would say it aloud. 

They walked together through the damp streets, the city glimmering around them. Outside a modest hotel, Lizzie paused. “This will do,” she said softly. 

Jack nodded. “Same here. Mine’s just across the road.” 

They stood for a moment, the air between them thick with possibility and restraint. 

“Thank you for tonight,” Lizzie said. “It’s been… unexpected.” 

“It has,” Jack agreed. “A good kind of unexpected.” 

For a moment, neither moved. Then, without thinking, Jack reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away. Their fingers intertwined, warm against the cold night air. 

When they finally parted, it was with a glance that said what neither dared voice — an understanding that something had shifted, quietly but irrevocably. 

The morning broke pale and still. The rain had stopped, leaving the city washed and gleaming. Lizzie sat in a café opposite the station, a coffee cooling beside her. She had slept little, her thoughts looping between guilt and wonder. Nothing had been promised, nothing truly done, and yet it felt as though everything had changed. 

Jack arrived a few minutes later, looking much the same, slightly rumpled, eyes tired, but smiling. “You made it.” 

“I wasn’t sure I would,” she said. “Part of me wanted to just disappear.” 

He nodded. “Me too.” 

They sat together in quiet companionship, the clatter of cups and morning commuters around them. When the announcement board finally flashed their trains — Winchester: 09:10, Portsmouth: 09:15 — Lizzie looked up at the great clock. 

“Under the clock,” she said softly. “It feels like a place where things begin.” 

“Or end,” Jack added. 

She smiled faintly. “Maybe both.” 

They walked together to the concourse. At the barrier, they stopped. “What now?” she asked. 

Jack hesitated. “Perhaps we meet again — same time, same place. A year from now.” 

Lizzie looked at him, searching his face for sincerity. “A year is a long time.” 

“Maybe that’s the point,” he said. “If we still want to, we’ll both be here.” 

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. A year from today. Under the clock.” 

They parted with a brief embrace, a simple, human gesture that felt both tender and final. As Lizzie’s train pulled away, she looked out at the city receding behind her, unsure whether she was returning home or leaving something behind. 

The year unfolded quietly. Lizzie returned to her routine, teaching, home, the unspoken distance between her and Mark. Yet something within her had stirred. She began writing again, small things at first, journal entries, fragments of poetry. She took walks alone, noticed the world in ways she hadn’t for years. There were moments of guilt when she thought of Jack, moments of longing, and sometimes a calm acceptance that perhaps that single night had been enough. 

Jack, too, slipped back into his ordered life. Caroline continued her quest for perfection — repainting the kitchen, re-tiling the bathroom, rearranging the furniture. Jack complied, nodded, mowed the lawn, smiled at neighbours. Yet he found himself pausing at small moments, a certain slant of light on a rainy day, the sound of a train in the distance and thinking of Lizzie. Not as an affair, but as a reminder, he was still capable of feeling alive. 

As the months passed, neither wrote nor called. Perhaps it was cowardice, or perhaps they understood that what had happened only worked because it had no place in their ordinary lives. But as autumn approached again, both found themselves thinking of the date — the anniversary of that night beneath the clock. 

On a crisp November afternoon, Lizzie stood once more at Waterloo Station. The clock loomed above her, its black hands steady against the white face. The concourse bustled, commuters hurrying home, voices echoing. She clutched her handbag a little tighter, unsure whether she was foolish or brave. 

She wore a navy coat and a silk scarf, her hair pinned up neatly. She had not told Mark where she was going, only that she had a training session in London. Her heart beat faster with each passing minute. 

At exactly six o’clock, she glanced up. Jack was there. 

He looked different, somehow lighter. The same careful eyes, the same gentle expression, but with a quiet confidence she hadn’t noticed before. He saw her and smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. 

“You came,” he said. 

“I did.” 

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, both half afraid to disturb the delicate balance of memory and reality. 

“Coffee?” he suggested. 

She nodded, and they walked together to the same café where they had sat that morning a year ago. 

Over coffee, they spoke of the year that had passed. Lizzie told him about her writing; how she had begun teaching creative workshops, how she had published a poem in a small journal. Jack told her he had taken up woodworking, how he was restoring an old boat with a friend from the marina. Both had, in their own ways, begun to reclaim something of themselves. 

“I used to think it was about escaping,” Lizzie said. “But I think it was really about remembering who I was.” 

Jack nodded. “That night reminded me that I wasn’t finished. That there was more to life than just keeping things in order.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken possibilities between them. 

“Do you ever think about what might have happened if we’d… gone further?” she asked quietly. 

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I realise it would have changed what it was. That night was perfect because it stopped where it did.” 

She smiled. “I think you’re right.” 

The clock struck seven. Around them, the station continued its endless motion — people arriving, departing, meeting, parting. The world carried on, indifferent and beautiful. 

Jack said, “Would you like to have dinner again? No promises, no pretending. Just two people who once waited out a storm together.” 

Lizzie looked at him, her heart calm. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.” 

They chose a different restaurant this time — a quiet bistro near the river. The conversation flowed easily, like old friends rediscovering a familiar rhythm. They spoke of books, travel, the absurdities of modern life. When the waiter brought dessert, they shared it without asking. 

As they walked back towards the station, the sky had turned dark, the river shimmering with reflected lights. They stopped on the bridge, watching the water move beneath them. 

“It’s strange,” Lizzie said. “A year ago, I felt as though my life had stopped. Now, it feels as though it’s beginning again.” 

Jack smiled. “Maybe that’s what we gave each other. A reminder.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the hum of the city. 

“Will we meet again next year?” she asked. 

He thought for a moment. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s enough to know we could.” 

Lizzie nodded. “Yes. Maybe it is.” 

Back under the clock, they paused once more. The announcement board flickered, trains arriving and departing. Around them, life swirled in endless motion. 

“This feels like a goodbye,” Jack said. 

Lizzie smiled softly. “Or just another beginning.” 

He reached for her hand, held it briefly, then let go. “Take care, Lizzie.” 

“And you, Jack.” 

She turned, walked towards her platform. He watched her go until she disappeared into the crowd. 

When he finally looked up, the clock read 20:15. He smiled, then turned towards his own train. 

In the months that followed, they did not meet again, though both often thought of that evening, not with longing, but with gratitude. The memory of their brief connection became a quiet source of courage, a reminder that life, even in its most ordinary moments, could still surprise. 

Lizzie continued to write, her poems filled with images of rain and light, of clocks and waiting. Jack finished restoring his boat and took it out on the Solent, feeling the salt air against his face, the steady rhythm of the waves beneath him. 

Neither sought more than that, not romance, not disruption, but understanding. Under the great clock at Waterloo, they had found, for a moment, the courage to be seen. 

Sometimes, when the world seemed grey, each would look at the time — perhaps at half past six on a rainy evening — and smile, remembering how two strangers once waited out a storm and found, in each other, the quiet truth that it is never too late to begin again.