Walter could find no peace. For four days straight, he hadn’t left the hospital bedside where his beloved Enid lay. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, listening only to her faint, uneven breaths, as if terrified they might stop at any moment. Outside, the village of Heatherbrook was buried beneath snowdrifts while a February blizzard raged, and inside Walter’s chest, a hollow ache grew.
Just ten days ago, Enid—his dear wife—had been full of life. She’d busied herself about the house, preparing for Pancake Day, dreaming of golden crêpes with honey and the warmth of home. Their modest pensions didn’t stretch far, but Enid had always known how to weave joy from little things. *“So long as the house smells of happiness,”* Walter would murmur, holding her close. Then, one awful morning, she crumpled to the floor like a snapped twig. The doctors delivered a diagnosis that left Walter’s vision swimming. Pancake Day, crêpes, comfort—all of it was crushed beneath the weight of tragedy.
Those days had aged Walter by decades. His already silver hair now looked like fresh-fallen snow. But the worst blow came when the doctor said Enid needed surgery to survive—and named a sum that might as well have been written in the stars.
*”How can we afford such a thing?”* Walter whispered, his legs threatening to give way. *”Enid and I live simply. Our nephew helps when he can, but he’s got his own troubles—two little ones to feed…”*
The doctor merely shrugged, explaining the hospital couldn’t cover the cost. Walter’s breath caught. A world without Enid? Unthinkable. He shut his eyes, and the pain in his chest convulsed. What use was life if she—his light—was gone?
They’d married young, barely out of school, and lived side by side for nearly fifty years. Arguments were rare, and even those melted away by bedtime. They’d never had children, pouring their love instead into Enid’s nephew, Edward. He lived in the next town over, visiting sometimes with his wife and boys. But not even he could help with this. Walter’s despair was a fist around his heart.
Another endless night in the hospital. The nurses had forced him to go home—to eat, to rest. He returned to an empty house still scented with Enid’s rosewater perfume. On the step, their neighbour Margaret met him.
*“How is Enid, Walt?”* she asked, eyes tight with worry.
Walter, bent beneath his grief, told her. Margaret gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
*“Oh Lord, what awful luck! We’ll start a collection. I’ll knock on doors, speak to folks. Maybe we can at least cover the medicines.”*
Walter only shook his head. He couldn’t believe anyone would help. Margaret, silent, brought him a bowl of hot stew, but he could barely swallow.
Back at the hospital, he learned Enid had worsened. He sat by her bed, fists clenched in helpless rage. *“Lord, save her—or take me with her,”* he whispered to the snowstorm beyond the window. The world felt hollow, and he—more alone than ever.
*“Visitor for Mrs. Enid,”* a nurse announced.
Walter startled. Who could it be? Edward was away until tomorrow. Margaret? But a young woman entered—a stranger, with a smile both warm and sorrowful.
*“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Walter?”* she said softly. *“I’m Lucy, from across the lane. My mother was Evelyn.”*
Walter searched her face, but memory failed. Lucy went on:
*“You might’ve forgotten… We were poor. Mum raised us five after Dad died. You and Enid kept us afloat. Without you, we’d have starved.”*
And then Walter *did* remember—the ragged family opposite, after the mill accident left them fatherless. Evelyn had worked herself to the bone for pennies. Walter and Enid, though hardly wealthy themselves, had brought them pies, mended clothes, bought them schoolbooks. Lucy, the youngest, had been so shy. How could he have forgotten?
*“Don’t fret, Mr. Walter,”* Lucy said. *“Margaret told me what happened. I’ve paid for Enid’s surgery. She’ll be all right.”*
Walter’s breath vanished.
*“Lucy—how? That’s a fortune…”*
*“It’s nothing,”* she murmured, squeezing his hand. *“I live in Toronto now. My husband builds houses. We’re… comfortable. And some debts are best repaid.”*
The next morning, Enid’s surgery went smoothly. The doctor said she’d recover. Walter wept openly. Home would smell of warmth again.
Lucy stayed—bringing medicine, cooking meals, holding his shaky hands. One afternoon, as Enid slept peacefully, they sat in the hospital café, cradling weak tea.
*“Lucy,”* Walter said hoarsely, *“how can I ever thank you for Enid? She’s my whole world. But why help us? We’re just old folk now.”*
Lucy met his eyes. *“You saved me once. In primary school, the others mocked me for my patched skirts. I dreaded my birthday—we couldn’t afford sweets to share. But you and Enid gave me a new jumper and a tin of toffees. I passed them round, and suddenly, I wasn’t the pauper anymore. That day mattered.”*
Walter’s throat closed. *“That was half a century ago…”*
*“Kindness doesn’t expire,”* Lucy said. *“It comes back, like bread upon the waters. And you’ll never be rid of me now.”*