Rating: General
Fandom: Remains of the Day – Kazuo Ishiguro
Relationship: Sarah Kenton/James Stevens

Notes:

Based on the film version. There are mentions to some deleted scenes that I thought should've been included in the final cut. You might check them out here: (youtube dot com slash) watch?v=dZ8JvAJXHM0

Also cross-posted on AO3.

Dear Miss Kenton,

Once again, I'm hoping you would not mind me calling you by this name that is dear to me – the only name that I could bear to think of you still. After all, I reason to myself, these letters are unlikely to reach you any time soon, if ever, and during these remaining years of my life, I would like to try to be honest with myself as much as I could. Allow this old man his small indulgences, will you?

James Stevens opened his eyes at five a.m. sharp, as he had done every morning since he first started service several decades ago, despite there be no longer needs for such accurate timekeeping after his retirement. He got out of bed, went through his ablutions, and sat down at his desk. He thought he would write to her, today.

The sun was not yet up, this time of the year. The biting cold chilled him and brought along a sense of gravity peculiar to the hour. Downstairs came the clattering noises of a stirring boarding house, and despite his mind telling him it was nowhere near the ordered chaos of Darlington Hall, his heart still ached faintly for the familiarity of years long past.

Not much has changed since last I wrote. Few things do, these days. Although I am glad to report that Mr Blackwell has kindly allowed me to borrow his prized book collection. I am normally not very partial to stage plays, but I came across one that was quite delightful recently, and I shall look forward to enjoying these as well.

I found the idleness that came with retirement quite lethargic, and once again, my thoughts turn to you. I wonder if you are still well, wherever you may be?…

It wasn't long before the fragrance of fresh bread and steaming coffee drew him out of his room down to the common living area. Mr Blackwell, the landlord, greeted him and handed Stevens his breakfast. The landlord apologised for the simple meal, as they were apparently preparing for a new tenant that morning. Stevens waved it off with a smile – he was never very fussy with his diet. The seat near the open window that allowed him the view of people going about their morning business beckoned him, but his persistent cough forced him to stay close to the fireplace. Once settled, he picked up his pen and resumed his letter.

The first blooms of spring have arrived, and Mrs Blackwell has taken to decorating the house with flowers. I am not an expert on floral species, but her favourite seems to be this small yellow thing called daffodils – she insisted on putting some in my room, even though I told her she didn't have to go to the trouble. They look strangely familiar – might they have been something you used to bring me?

I recall your unsuccessful yet constant attempts at cheering up my parlour – looking back, they are not as offensive to me as rather amusing, as is the case with most things now. But I do wish-

His hand stilled. Even after all those years, even if these lines will never be seen by any other eyes than his, it was still difficult to make certain acknowledgements. Stevens munched on his breakfast, stalling for time, avoiding the inevitable words that always seemed to crop up whenever he put pen to paper.

I wish I could tell you how much I appreciated what you did for me – you were only trying to brighten up the quarters of a surly old butler, weren't you? You were always trying, pushing one way or another, for some sort of reaction out of me.

What if I told you that, before I knew it, I had become so dependent on them, that once they are gone, I was lost? What would you say, I wonder?

He had the vague impression that somebody was calling his name. It sounded oddly like her voice. It was not until that voice repeated itself another time did he look up.

Surely, he must be seeing things. Writing these letters must have addled his mind, filling his head with impossible scenarios. Because it had been over seven years since-

'Miss Kenton?' And there she was, standing in front of him. He waited for this mirage to fade, but Sarah Kenton did not move. Both of her hands were on her opened mouth, as though she was just as shock as him at this unlikely encounter.

He did not even notice how he had addressed her. They looked at each other for what seemed like ages. Stevens tried his voice again, only to find it hoarse. 'What are you doing here?'

'I should be asking you the same question…Mr Stevens.' A shiver ran through him. It was silly, but he had thought he would go to his grave without ever hearing his name in her voice again. She seemed to have recovered better and drew close to his table by the fire. 'May I?' She gestured to the chair opposite him.

He remembered his manners. 'Oh, sorry. Yes, of course.' He stood up to accommodate her. She darted a glance at the papers on his table, and Stevens quickly cleared them up, hoping she had not read what was written. Had time wound back thirty years ago, he thought she would have asked what they were. But the years stretched like an endless gulf between them, and they were no longer people who knew each other well enough to voice such things.

Stevens took advantage of the lull in their exchange to take a proper look at her. Miss Kenton…no, Mrs Benn, he admonished himself. The years had been kind on Mrs Benn, and he hoped the light wrinkles on her face had been that of laughter and not pain. She gave him a tight smile, and he thought she had not changed one bit.

'This is a pleasant surprise.' He said, grasping at anything to fill the awkward silence. 'How is Mr Benn? Is…Is he here with you?'

She looked down at her clasped hands. 'Tom died three years ago, Mr Stevens. Pneumonia.'

'Oh.' He muttered, feeling like he had made a great blunder. Their first conversation after nearly a decade, and he was already floundering for the right words. 'I'm so sorry to hear that.' He found he was speaking in honesty. Despite his bitterness towards the man, he could not deny that Tom Benn had been courageous where James Stevens hadn't, and thanks to him, Sarah Kenton had not been left alone after all.

But Mr Benn was gone now, and Stevens could not help but hate him all over again, for leaving her.

'Please don't be. It was a while ago.' Mrs Benn said, looking up to meet his eyes. She seemed to have come to some sort of decision, to press on. 'Oh, I must seem a terrible conversation partner, talking about such grim matters when we haven't spoken for so long. You must excuse me. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you're sitting here in front of me.' She laughed in self-reproach. The words went unspoken between the both of them: I thought I had seen the last of you, seven years ago.

'I had assumed you were still at Darlington Hall.' She continued, then paused. 'If I think about it, in the back of my mind, I guess I've always imagined you would be there forever. But of course, that's impossible.'

'Yes…I retired last year. These bones are not as strong as they used to be, Mrs Benn. I thought it prudent to make my exit before I lose what dignity I still have left.' Stevens thought of his late father, and he knew she understood. 'How about you? What brought you to this part of the country?'

'I'm actually on my way to London. Catherine, my daughter – if you remember – moved there with her family a few months ago. They've asked me to join them. I thought I might as well make a trip out of it, you know, see the country while I still have the strength.'

'Oh. How long will you be here, then?'

'My train leaves tomorrow, I'm afraid.'

He tried not to show his disappointment. Of course, this meeting could only be a fluke of destiny. He wasn't sure what he had hoped, but the inevitable truth stared at his face: After tomorrow, they would part, and everything would remain as it had been.

'Well, if you have some free time, I can show you around. If you want to, of course.'

Mrs Benn smiled, but it seemed strained to his eyes. 'That sounds great.' Stevens looked at her and dared to return a smile of his own. She looked at her watch. 'I should go unpack. Perhaps I'll see you around, Mr Stevens?'

'Yes, of course. I'll see you around.'

With that, she stood up and left. The distance and formality in their exchange were disheartening. Even though she was the one he had been writing to regularly, sharing his most inner thoughts, learning how to be honest with, Stevens now found himself unable to cross that chasm that spanned decades. He felt foolish all of a sudden, the unsent letters a discarded pile beneath his hands. After all, these were nothing more than an exercise in futility, a product of a senile man's wishful thinking. The truth is, when face to face, this was what they would all ever be – old acquaintances.

He wished he had never taken up this pointless habit in the first place.

The last day Stevens spent as Head Butler of Darlington Hall was a curiously quiet one. All his duties had been passed on to the under-butler, William – who, in his opinion, was rather too young and inexperienced to be replacing him as the head of staff, but he had to admit that the running of the household was nowhere near as demanding as it had been when Stevens was in his prime. The rapid decline of the service profession had been felt keener with each day passing by, and he found it terrifying to think of the day when there would no longer be needs for butlers at all.

He made his last rounds through the familiar hallways of this place he had called home for more than fifty years, wondering if this was really the end. He checked every window, every door twice. All the silver had been polished, all the tables wiped. The only thing left was to bring Mr Lewis his nightcap. He found himself dallying, but the clocks chimed the hour, and his master would hate to be kept waiting.

When he found Mr Lewis in his private chamber, the American was by the table, reading. Stevens put the drinks down, then coughed lightly to draw his master's attention.

'Mr Lewis, sorry to disturb you, but I thought I should remind you that tonight is my last night as your Head Butler.'

Mr Lewis looked up in surprise. 'Really? God, I can't believe I've forgotten the date.' He fumbled with the papers. 'Sit down, Stevens. Let's have a last drink before you go, for old time's sake.'

Stevens hesitated, but Mr Lewis insisted, and he moved to fill two glasses of whisky before taking one glass for himself and sat down opposite his master.

'Time sure flies, huh? I know it's corny, but it really feels like I've just moved into this place yesterday. How long has it been, eight or nine years now? But surely, it must have been much longer for you.'

'Yes. I started my post shortly after the war…I mean, the first war, sir.'

'The Great War, they called it, didn't they. A war to end all wars. That just shows how you shouldn't speak too soon.'

Stevens remained silent, not knowing what to offer as a response. Anything would sound contrived and false. They drank together in silence for a while, before Mr Lewis spoke up again. 'What are you going to do, Stevens?'

'A distant relative of mine introduced me to a boarding house in the West Country, sir. I believe I will spend the rest of my retirement there.'

'Any plans for travelling at all?'

'Not at the moment, sir. Perhaps if my health allows.'

'Hmm…That sounds a bit lonely, doesn't it?' Mr Lewis said, but immediately shook his head. 'Sorry, that wasn't called for. I'm probably a little drunker than I thought.' Stevens did not reply, choosing to nurse his drink instead. What could he say? That the American was absolutely right, and he could only saw years of a bland and solitary existence before him?

'What a funny thing, though, isn't it, loneliness? Such a subjective thing.' Mr Lewis continued. 'You know, when I was in the States, when the war was at its peak, there was a time when I had to cut off all contacts with my family. No phone calls, no letters, nothing.' Stevens was surprised at his master's sudden frankness. It felt as though he was trying to make up for his misspeaking earlier. Stevens would have told him it was not necessary, but he found himself intrigued, and let Mr Lewis continued.

'I thought it'd be really lonely. It was only for a few months, but I prepared myself for hell. But looking back, it wasn't all that bad. You know what got me through? I wrote. I wrote to my wife, to my daughter. Every day I'd tell them about things that happened to me, things about people around me. I wasn't allowed to send them, of course, but the act helped.' He paused to sip from his glass. 'The belief that someday they'll read it, that helped me through it all.'

Stevens stared into the fire. The amicable mood prompted him to ask, 'Did they ever receive your letters, in the end?'

'Oh, no. No. When I came back, it was too embarrassing to tell them, and after that, the right moment to bring it up never came.' Mr Lewis laughed, a bit self-conscious. 'There you have it. I'm a weirdo who writes letters to people who never even read them. So I hope you didn't take offence at me speaking thoughtlessly, Stevens. I'd hate you to remember me as an inconsiderate master.'

'Rest assured, sir, no such thing would happen. I would also ask you to excuse me for this personal comment, but I shall think of you and our time at Darlington Hall with nothing but fondness in my heart.'

Stevens finished his drink and stood up. 'Thank you for the drink, sir. Would that be all?'

'Yes. Good night, Stevens. And thank you. For everything.' Mr Lewis replied. Stevens bowed deeply, and made his exit.

The unexpected meeting with Mrs Benn left Stevens restless all morning, and well into the afternoon. Many times he thought of knocking on her door, yet the fear that his presence would be unwelcome stayed his feet. Other times he paced around his room, listening for familiar footsteps outside, hoping despite himself that she would take the initiative instead. Eventually, he got irritated with his own indecision, and concluded that a walk would help clear his mind.

As he travelled the paths that had become familiar to him in the past couple of years, he wondered whether he had been subconsciously hoping for such a coincidence to pass, when he made the move to take up a place in the West Country to spend his retirement. That couldn't be, the logical side of him argued. They have lost touch for almost a decade; he knew she would be moving to be near her daughter's family, and he had no way of knowing where she was anyway.

It was a mere accident that they met. Whether this could mean something more was entirely up to him.

Stevens was lost in these thoughts when he came across a bookstore. The walk had tired him a little, so he went in.

Only to find himself almost nose to nose with the very subject of his thoughts.

'Miss Kenton!' He exclaimed, then cursed himself for the slip. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Benn. I didn't expect to see you here.'

Mrs Benn flustered and laughed breathlessly, likewise amazed by the second coincidence in one day. 'It seems we are determined to collide into each other today, Mr Stevens.'

'I assure you, it is not my plan to spring surprises on you at every step.'

'Oh? I certainly hope not. Otherwise I might think you are harbouring some sort of hidden agenda.'

'Hm, and what sort of agenda would that be?'

'I'm not sure…Perhaps an experiment to see how an obstinate old woman refused help and thus got lost in an unfamiliar town?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Were you lost, then, Mrs Benn?'

'Maybe. A bit.' She smiled sheepishly. 'I really should have taken you on your offer…But you know me.'

He did not blame her if she felt like avoiding him. This bizarre situation had thrown them both off their feet, and he felt himself stumbling over his own words, not quite knowing how to proceed. He went with a casual agreement.

'Yes…I recall you have always been rather on the strong-willed side of things.'

'Obstinate, you mean.'

'I really can't presume, but if you say so.'

'I do say so, but do me a favour, will you, Mr Stevens?'

'Of course.'

'Let's pretend that I wasn't lost at all.'

'Anything for you.'

The familiar teasing came upon them so suddenly, so easily, that Stevens felt dizzy on his feet. The onslaught of emotions almost scared him, yet bantering with her had always been too heady and addictive for him to stop. He had to turn away. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that she did the same.

He cleared his throat. 'Did you find a book you like?'

'Oh? Ah, no. I was only looking. To be honest with you, I haven't shopped for books in quite a while. I'm afraid I don't know where to start.'

'Then allow me to help and make some suggestions.' He gestured inside, and they walked. 'What kind of genre do you read, Mrs Benn?'

'All sorts, really. A bit of mystery here, a spot of romance there. I do it mostly to keep my mind sharp, improve my English command. I don't have a particular preference.'

The parallel between her words and those Stevens had once spoken in the past did not escape him. He wondered whether it was intentional. The words stung, but he ignored it.

In the end, he suggested a play he had finished the week before. 'I've always thought plays could only be enjoyed on the stage and not on paper, but this one changed my mind. In fact, it made me go to my landlord and asked to borrow his Beckett's collection.' The fact that he could say these things to her now when they were only words on unsent letters before, gave him a small thrill.

Mrs Benn only nodded absent-mindedly. Her attention seemed to be caught by something further ahead. Stevens craned his neck to have a look – it was the romance section, and…

Oh.

'Do you remember that book, Mr Stevens?' She asked, softly.

How could he forget? It was the very novel from that afternoon, where he had made up that lie about reading anything, where he had fallen asleep next to the fireplace, and she had come in, wanting to see what it was, pushing him into a corner, her body aligned against his…

Not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, he wondered if they would be standing here if he had acted differently then.

But of course, there was no use thinking about what might have been. Mrs Benn herself had told him that. Stevens shook his head to snap out of his reverie and reached out to take the book.

'Yes…Do you know something, Mrs Benn? I actually never got to finish it.' It carried too many unpleasant memories, he added silently.

It probably was only his imagination, but he thought she looked surprised. Did she think he would not acknowledge what had happened between them? Did she think he would run away like he had always done? Stevens would not blame her in the slightest. He had never let her in, not once, not even seven years ago when he had met her to 'offer a job', had he?

They fell silent as he thumbed through the novel. Then, she spoke up. 'That's a pity. The ending was really good, if I remember correctly.' She sent him a tight smile. It seemed like Sarah Benn was determined not to let the past taint whatever time they still had left.

Stevens smiled back. Who was he to deny her?

'Maybe I will read it now.', he wondered out loud. Perhaps it would not hurt quite as much. There was no reason to abandon a good book just because he was too much of a coward to face his failure, after all.

He tucked the book under his arm and moved toward the counter. Mrs Benn followed him, apparently having decided to go with his recommendation. They stood next to each other as the clerk rang up their items.

'Shall we go for a walk?' Stevens asked, tentatively. It was an innocent question, the natural next step to his offer to play tour guide, yet part of himself expected her to turn him down, to make up some excuse about errands to run.

She only smiled, oblivious to his turbulent thoughts. 'I rely on you to take me home in one piece, then.'

He had to silently laugh at himself at the easy way she accepted. Somehow, in the midst of regrets and doubts, he had forgotten that they used to be close, even if he had always masked it under the pretence of a working relationship. Why should they not be friends once more? After all, they seem to still enjoy each other's company, and why should he deny himself this small comfort at the end of his days?

There was no reason to complicate things further than necessary. He had already put too much burden on Mrs Benn to last a lifetime, anyhow. He should make the best out of this day given to him by fate, and make her stay here as pleasant as possible.

'What are you finding so funny?' He heard her ask, and was surprised to find a small grin on his own face. Her eyes twinkled with mirth, and his heart could not help but squeeze tightly.

'Oh…nothing, just musings of an old man. Shall we?' Stevens gestured, and then followed Mrs Benn out of the bookstore.

They walked together for a few blocks, enjoying the evening sun. 'This is a very pleasant place. Quiet and peaceful. I could imagine myself spending my retirement here too, actually.'

'Have you not retired already, Mrs Benn?'

'It's just a simple mending job. Something I do to pass the time, especially with my husband gone. You know how terrible I am with idleness.'

There was a story behind those dismissive words, but he chose not to press. 'This town has its attractive points, I guess. But mostly I spend my days indoors. I feel more comfortable surrounded by the sounds of a working house than in the open air.'

She only hummed cryptically at that. 'What?', he asked.

'Nothing…Just thinking about how you haven't changed at all.'

'Well, a lifetime of habit is hard to break.' He replied, rather defensively.

'I don't mean it as a bad thing. In these times of great upheavals, it's actually quite comforting.'

He felt that he was being made fun of, but the thought of him bringing comfort to her made him strangely warm. He guessed he could allow her that teasing smile a bit longer.

Their wandering steps brought them to a busier street. Groups of people bustled about, trying to get the last rush in at the end of a working day.

'Oh, look, Mr Stevens. That is some lovely blooms.' Mrs Benn's attention was caught by some flowers the town people have put up around lamp posts and benches. They looked familiar, and Stevens guessed they were the same kind Mrs Blackwell has taken to put around the boarding house. He said as much to her, but she shook her head. 'No, Mr Stevens, these are buttercups. The ones you're talking about is daffodils. They have trumpet-like bulbs, while you can see buttercups have five petals, all spread out.' She bent down and pointed out the differences to him.

'Well, I must concede to your expertise, then. I was never too much of flower person.'

'Yes, I know, I remember. You've always bristled whenever I tried to introduce them to you before.'

'Now, I'm quite sure I never bristled, as you put it.'

'Like a cat, you did, Mr Stevens.'

He simply raised his eyebrows at the analogy. She bit her lip in amusement; the gesture made his heart flutter. They held eye contact for a few charged moments before she looked away and continued walking ahead.

He inevitably recalled his rambling words on one of the letters – he had wished for a chance to convey his appreciation for her, to hear how she would respond – would she be pleased? Or would it make her remember too many painful memories? He wanted to ask.

No complicating things now, Stevens. Tomorrow, and she will be gone.

He tried to imprint that reminder onto his mind, and hoped his treacherous thoughts would stay silent.

They walked past an alley full of small stores selling trinkets. Mrs Benn expressed a wish to buy presents for her family, and so they entered a souvenir shop. Once there, she browsed through the shelves efficiently before picking out several assorted sweets and a small, brown teddy bear.

He assumed the latter was for her grandchild. He absently wondered if the child was a boy or a girl, and whether a gift from himself would be considered stepping over the line.

All that was done fairly quickly, yet she seemed to take a long time over some writing papers. He thought she would pick them up, but then she would dart a glance at him, and put them back down again.

He ventured to ask, 'Do you write often, Mrs Benn?'

'Oh, no, actually, I haven't written for quite some time. I just thought…never mind, I'm just being silly.' She dismissed, stepping away from the stationery, her face turned away from him.

Stevens frowned. He didn't think such a casual question would prompt this kind of reaction. But then again, it was true that they had not exchanged words at all since they last met. Even after their chilly separation when she left Darlington Hall, they had still contrived to write to each other, at least to send the occasional Christmas cards or to inform changes in address. He had always looked at it as a failure on his part, but perhaps – and the thought left him with great unease – she felt responsible for it too.

The air between them seemed to thicken with tension, the light atmosphere before entirely gone. He grasped blindly at a topic of conversation and landed on the small bear she bought.

'That is…for your grandchild, I presume?'

She followed his eyes. 'Oh, yes. Little Charles is six, and still of teddy bear age.' She paused. 'Or so I insist, despite what his mother says.'

'Oh?'

'Catherine thinks I'm too soft on him, with all my sweets and stuffed animals. But what she doesn't see is how he has a gentle soul – he gets terrified easily, you see. It is difficult for him to sleep alone at night, and these toys keep him company.'

'Well, I'm not well-versed in matters of child-rearing, but I can see how a boy of schooling age should learn how to be independent.' Stevens replied, matter-of-factly. His own childhood did not have much room for toys either, and he could sympathise with the mother.

Mrs Benn glared at him. Apparently this was an argument she had had too many times before. 'I don't think it's too much of a crime to take care of him a little. If you had a child, I'm sure you would understand too, Mr Stevens.'

That had come out of nowhere, and it had hurt. Stevens looked away, trying to calm his own rising temper. It was amazing, how quickly his moods can change when it comes to Sarah Benn.

'It is as you said, Mrs Benn. I do not have children of my own, nor have I imagined ever having any, so you'll excuse me for my novice advice, even when they're made with the best of intentions!' He had tried to placate, but somehow, the words tumbled out accusingly.

'I appreciate your intentions, Mr Stevens. But the fact remains, he is my grandson. I know what I'm doing with him.'

He rolled his eyes. 'I won't argue that fact with you, believe me. You are too protective of him to be anything but his grandmother.'

She took a deep breath. And then another. The anger seemed to seep out of her, and she smiled apologetically. 'And if I hadn't known better, I would've thought you and Catherine go to the same parenthood meetings. You sound just like her.'

'Yes, well, I'm only suggesting that you should try to look at it from his mother's point of view too.'

She pursed her lips together. 'You know, I can't decide if I should shout at you, or simply just storm out of here.'

'Maybe neither?'

Mrs Benn looked at him for long moments before shaking her head. 'I really cannot win with you, can I?' He quirked his eyebrows in response, which prompted her to huff a laugh. She said nothing more, picked up her purchases and left the store.

They were travelling in silence when she suddenly asked, softly, almost casually. 'Did you really never imagine having children, Mr Stevens?'

'Yes…Perhaps it is for the best, as I probably would be dreadful with them.'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps you would be a great grandfather. We'll never know now.'

In her words, he thought he heard, Little Charles could've been our grandson together.

When he made his departure from the house, Stevens did not expect his last conversation with Mr Lewis to leave any particular impression, except perhaps to supply a curious anecdote about his former master, one among many he had gathered throughout his years of service. However, once settled down from his relocation, he suddenly discovered too much time on his hand, and his thoughts inevitably turned to what the American had said about alleviating one's solitude with an absent audience. The idea grabbed hold of him, and as identical days passed each other one by one, Stevens found himself considered it more and more often.

However, his situation and that of Mr Lewis were not truly one and the same – he wouldn't quite say he was lonely, he told himself. When he eventually went and buy stationery papers, he even had every intention to send a proper letter to Mrs Benn – a perfunctory greeting, announcing his departure from Darlington Hall, and so on.

He only got as far as 'Dear Mrs Benn,' before words escaped him.

It was not that he did not know what to write. It was quite the opposite – yet, their final meeting weighed heavily on his mind. It seemed to him they had both parted with the impression that it would be their last communication. She would be happy with her husband, who was a kind, steady man, whom she had grown to love, with grandchildren on the way and peaceful years ahead of them…would Mrs Benn welcome this reminder of the past?

He wondered why he was so worried. After all, they were only ever colleagues – what they had, a mere working relationship. Surely there was nothing upsetting at all to hear word from an old acquaintance?

Resolution renewed, he put pen to paper. It would be entirely professional, meant to inform his new address, perhaps even reiterate his best wishes for the couple in their retirement.

'Dear Mrs Benn, I wonder if the hands of time could ever be rewound?'

The words were out before he knew it. And yet, he was unable to write anything else. Anything else would be a lie, anyway.

At least, on these pages, he wouldn't have to watch her say no.

They agreed to meet for dinner again at a small restaurant a little way from the edge of the town, some simple establishment that his landlord had recommended upon their request. Being a Friday night, the place was filled with couples enjoying candle-lit dinners and intimate conversations. Some had even cleared tables at one end of the room to begin dancing, their bodies swaying slowly to the melody of gentle ballads over the gramophone.

The incredibly romantic atmosphere did not escape either of them. Still, when the waiter cheerfully lit up the candle at their table, she only smiled and asked for the wine menu.

They engaged in inconsequential small talk, all the while aware that this would be the last night before Mrs Benn's departure. Stevens updated her of the state of Darlington Hall as he had left it. When he shared his observation about the rapid decline and disappearance of the service profession, she seemed as similarly distraught as him, and he took solace in their shared grief.

In return, he learned that Catherine was working for a trade union, her husband a factory worker. He cherished every piece of stories from her, every laughter over some humorous anecdote, every distant look whenever she mentioned her husband. Perhaps these would be all he had to accompany him in the years to come. Lord knows when they would see each other again, if ever.

'When does your train leave tomorrow?' He eventually gathered the courage to ask, over desserts.

'In the morning, I think. I'll have to check again. The plan was for Catherine to come meet me near Brighton, and then our family would all spend a few days enjoying the sea air before returning to London.'

He didn't realise he had intended to ask Mrs Benn to extend her stay there, until that hope was dashed into pieces. 'Oh. I see.'

'It's a pity it's all been arranged. I wish I could've stayed longer.'

He smiled ruefully. 'A pity, but it is what it is.'

'If…If you ever find yourself in London, Mr Stevens, then you are very welcome to visit Catherine and I. In fact, I insist you must. I've told her a lot about you, and I think she would be pleased to put a face to the stories at last.' She offered tentatively, her eyes seeking his for encouragement.

'Certainly,' he replied out of courtesy. Yet he could not quite imagine himself making the visit. Perhaps they both knew that. 'And the offer goes the other way around too, of course. Should you pass by this area again, I am at your disposal, if you wish it. I don't imagine I would be going anywhere soon.'

It was the only proper response, yet somehow Stevens felt he had let her down. She nodded once, curtly, then turned back to her plates. His heart clenched at her crestfallen face, and he strived to change the topic. 'You told her stories about me? All good things, I hope.'

Mrs Benn looked up and managed a small smile. 'I didn't call you a tyrant, if that's what you're worried about.'

He raised an eyebrow at her description. 'I dread to ask what other words you come up with when you think of me.'

She huffed a laugh, and he was glad to see their conversation returned to a lighter mood. 'Actually, Catherine was quite fascinated by the fact that you served for an American master.'

'Oh?'

'Yes, she's never met one before, you see, much less a rich Congressman who buys an English country house. She's always going on about things the new world does better than us – mind you, she hasn't had the chance to see much outside of her hometown. I'm hoping living in London should open her eyes more.'

'Her fascination with Mr Lewis is understandable, I think. He is quite a character, even among Americans.'

'That is true. Do you recall the first time he came to Darlington Hall, during that dreadful conference?'

Stevens nursed his drinks in contemplation – the firelight and music were making him nostalgic of a time long gone. He hadn't had cause to cast his mind back to that occasion in recent years – the death of his father aside, the heated political discussions that went on during those days and what they meant in light of later events were too upsetting for him to dwell on – he felt self-conscious enough with the failures he were willing to admit. But perhaps not everything in those memories was gloomy. 'Yes, of course. I remember him as rather outspoken – one could even call him brave. Do you know what he called Lord Darlington and his guests? Gentleman amateurs.'

'No.' Mrs Benn exhaled in disbelief. 'I never heard about this. Tell me.'

So he told her about what happened within the dining room walls, or as much as he could remember in-between his father's illness and the hectic preparation that engrossed the staff downstairs. He told her about the French ambassador, and Mr Lewis's rather futile attempts to catch him in conversation, while the former man kept getting distracted by his swollen feet. It had seemed annoying at the time, but as he recounted to Mrs Benn, he realised they could also be rather amusing.

'By the end of the whole affair, I felt as though Lord Darlington had half a mind to tell Mr Lewis to pack his things and leave in the night.' Stevens chuckled. 'He couldn't, of course, but I was rather sure he wanted to.'

At this, she looked at him with a strange twinkle in her eyes. 'You know what, Mr Stevens? I don't think you of ten or twenty years ago would have made such remarks at all.'

He pondered her comment for some moments. 'I was never open with my opinions out of respect for my master, Mrs Benn. It was not our place to think one way or another. But just because I didn't say anything, did not mean I didn't have any thoughts of my own.'

'I know, I know.' She replied, possibly remembering the times he had made that same assertion. 'Still, I am glad you chose to share those thoughts with me. Maybe retirement life suits you.' She teased, and he was helpless against her smile.

'Maybe it does.' Stevens agreed in a small voice. She was right, he thought. Perhaps it was the secret letters he wrote that helped loosen his tongue, perhaps it was the relief of duty, perhaps it was the wine they had been drinking – perhaps, even a combination of all three. But the truth was, he did not find speaking his mind so much of a burden as he once used to. He wondered if he should feel proud or ashamed.

'While we're in this mood for sharing stories, should I also share one about myself?' Mrs Benn said airily.

'By all means.' Stevens replied, curiosity piqued.

Her eyes wandered to the makeshift dance floor some steps away from their table, tracking the movements of men and women wrapping themselves in each other. 'I have never danced before.'

'Really? Not even with your husband?'

'He was never a fan of these kinds of places – a public house, yes, where he can have a pint or two with his mates. But never candlelit dinners and dancing floors.'

Stevens looked down at his hands, wrinkled and spotted, placed close to hers, similarly lined with veins from a lifetime of work. They were neither of them young anymore. Still, a notion popped into his head, insistent and tantalising. His heart was pounding, his palms clammy with light sweat. Just one question, yet it felt like he was about to breach a line…

'Should we rectify that?' He murmured without looking up.

He heard her inhale, her fingers curling into fists. 'What do you mean?'

Before he knew it, he was standing up, one hand extended towards her. 'Would you like to dance, Mrs Benn?'

Perhaps he should have been amazed at his own audacity. But at that moment, it was as if his body no longer belonged to him. Not even in his dreams did he imagine this – her nodding after a few moments' hesitation, placing her hand in his, as they led each other towards the dancing area.

There was a moment's awkwardness as she was unsure how to move. 'Just follow my lead', he whispered, and soon they began to fall into steps, her hand resting on his shoulder, while his placing lightly at her waist. Their other hands were still conjoined together, and nothing seemed to matter as much as how she fit into his arms so easily, as if they had done this a thousand times before. It was so surreal, he had to wonder if he was only sleepwalking.

They had never been quite this close before, close enough to feel each other's breath. He could smell her perfume, something floral mint scented, and it was all he could do to stop himself from leaning down and taking a deep breath of her greying hair. It would be the easiest thing in the world to tighten his arm just that bit more, to pull her body flush against his. Or he could angle his neck just so, and plant a kiss upon her full, painted lips…

He chided himself and tried to concentrate on putting one foot after another. One, two. One, two. Step, touch. Step, touch. He counted inside his head, hoping the rhythmic chant would keep hopeless fantasies at bay.

At one point, she looked up, and their eyes met. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Stevens liked to think she was as affected by their proximity as him. He wondered if she could see how his composure was quickly slipping, how he ached for this moment to last just one more second, one more step.

'I never thought you could dance, Mr Stevens.' Her voice was low and hoarse, almost inaudible. He could not take his eyes off her. It was tormenting, this desire she had reawakened in him, and he wished so fervently that the past hadn't mattered. That he had been in a position to offer her a life by his side. That he'd said something when she had left. That no mistakes had been made.

He wished he could lean down, and knew for certain that she wouldn't pull away.

'Miss Kenton…' The name slipped out before he realised. She frowned, her breath hitched in pain. But he couldn't correct himself, not then, when the world had condensed down to just the two of them, when all he could think about was how dear she was to him, how she had always been Sarah Kenton in his mind, the subject of his vain letters that never went anywhere.

But it was too much for her, apparently, for she suddenly stopped. Her hand dropped from his shoulder. She heaved once, twice, murmured some excuse of going to the washroom – and then he was left standing alone on the dance floor, watching her quickly retreating back.

He could still feel her scent clinging to the air, to his body. Every single cell in him cried out with the loss of her warmth.

He closed his eyes and tried not to weep.

The night plagued him with impossible visions that burned and tormented.

They were not reenactments of the past that his mind loved to conjure during sleep. Not the scene in his parlour where he had chased her away with discouraging words, nor the moment when she cried her heart out at his feet while he ranted some meaningless reminder about a chore to be completed. They weren't even the moment at the bus stop, when he saw her teary face and all he chose to do was to feign nonchalance and doff his hat.

Neither were they images of a more heated nature, of stolen caresses and intimate sighs that he still suffered from time to time despite his growing years, and which always left him bereft and shameful upon awakening.

In fact, these visions were so tame and ordinary, they were searing in their simplicity.

Stevens walked the stairs that led to one of the many storerooms in Darlington Hall, a light spring in his steps. Sarah Kenton was by the table, laying out freshly laundered tea towels and stacking them into drawers with frightening efficiency. He smiled to himself. She had always applied herself in all aspects of her work.

That is not to say, she should not be kept on her toes from time to time, Stevens thought, as he spoke up to enquire her about some linen that was to be prepared the day after next. He expected her to snap at him, as her temper was often irked whenever her competence seemed to be called into question. It was only due to her inexperience, and he told himself to deal with it calmly and professionally. Still, in a small corner of his mind, he wouldn't deny that the angry banter gave him some sort of a small thrill.

Miss Kenton said nothing, however, and kept her back to him. He wondered about this unexpected silence, and repeated his query. When she finally turned to face him, it was only to give him an expectant look, as though he was supposed to say something else. Slowly getting annoyed with each minute passed, he planned to move closer in case she did not hear him. Yet he found himself unable to move, like something was holding his legs in place.

It was then that he noticed her youthful appearance. Her skin was smooth and unlined, her curly hair a bright auburn colour. Her eyes shined with hopeful innocence, before disappointment and heartbreak had dimmed it. He thought he would never see it again.

But why would he not see it again? He was confused. Why did he feel like this was not the face he should be looking at?

What was it he was supposed to say?

All of a sudden, they were in the conservatory, and he was sitting next to her at the rattan table where she often did her needlework. She was mending some footman's jacket now, her delicate hands working with care over the fabric. The sunlight brought into focus her concentrating profile, and he reached out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

He realised he was holding a newspaper – apparently, he had been reading them. He didn't think he was in the habit of perusing the news in the conservatory, but did not give it any thought as he put it down to reach over and still her moving hands. A gold band gleamed on her ring finger, prompting a swell of affection to surge through him. He put a small kiss on the adornment and asked her something – perhaps the order for the larder, perhaps a request for dinner. Catherine did love her corned beef, what's wrong with indulging the child now and then again?

But again, Sarah only looked up blankly in silence. No matter what he said, she still offered no response. There was a prickling at the back of his mind telling him to find the right words. What were the right words? Why isn't she answering?

Of course, how could she? People in letters cannot answer, not if you never sent those letters in the first place.

And then, it occurred to him, as sometimes these things do, that this was only a dr-

When Stevens woke up, it took him long minutes to chase away feelings of easy domestic bliss. He climbed out of his bed and got on with his daily routines, the morning chill bringing a harsh reminder of reality. If his cheeks had been a little damp, his hands a little unsteady, they were all gone after a quick wash.

He wondered what he had been supposed to say.

As Stevens knocked on her room later that morning, he half expected her to have left for the train already. He told himself that she wouldn't go without saying goodbye, yet the possibility nagged at his mind until she opened the door to greet him. There were bags under her eyes, and he felt his heart constrict with guilt.

Mrs Benn was all ready to leave, it seemed. She had little in the way of luggage – only a small trunk and a handbag. They did not say much to the other, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. Stevens helped carry her things downstairs, all the while trying not to think about how final this whole situation seemed to be, how similar to that last parting seven years ago. It would most likely end just the same, he thought, with him choosing the cowardly way out and keeping a stiff upper lip till the last.

'Shall I accompany you to the bus stop?' He offered, the first words they've exchanged in awhile.

'Actually, Mr Stevens, I'd like you to accompany me to the train station.' She was fiddling with her trunk. He could not see her face. It seemed to him she might be avoiding his eyes.

There was nothing more he would like than to spend a few minutes, even a few seconds further with her. Yet the longer he stayed in her company, the harder it was to ignore the pain inside his ribs. There was no real alternative other than to mutter a quick 'Yes, of course', however, and before long, he'd found himself standing next to her as the bus approached.

The bus was nearly empty, this time of the day – there was only one other elderly gentleman at the front row. They chose seats toward the back and settled down, again falling into silence. The scenery of the small town whipped past them, past rows of houses and high grass fences as the bus started its descent down the hills. At one point, a clearing opened up, and they could see the horizon stretching out right below across patches of green and yellow. Mrs Benn let out a breath in wonderment.

'I doubt London will have anything like this. I'll be sorry to miss it.' She sighed, eyes glued to the landscape. Stevens suddenly found it impossible to look anywhere but on her raptured face, and only hummed absent-mindedly in agreement.

'At night, you can see lights from the town below lit up a whole area, over there,' he pointed. 'It is quite astonishing. I wouldn't have thought such a sight possible, even just ten or twenty years ago. Reminds me of how irrelevant we are quickly becoming, don't you think?'

She turned to look at him. 'I don't think pessimism suits you, Mr Stevens.'

'Perhaps I have changed after all, then, Mrs Benn. Time does that to us all.'

The winter wind picked up, slipped through the window and washed over their exposed faces, leaving little pinpricks on their skins. He saw her huddled further inside her coat, looking her age more than ever.

'I'm not that fond of moving in with Catherine's family, to be honest.' She suddenly muttered, low and hushed like a confession. 'I know she will be gone all the time, with her job in the union, so is her husband, and little Charles will be starting school next fall. It will eventually just be me, on my own, most of the day. And my daughter – we are constantly bickering over the right way to raise Charles. Sometimes, I do see her point. But what upsets me is that it's as if my input isn't even needed anymore.' She laughed mockingly at herself. 'You said we are becoming irrelevant – yes, that's exactly how I feel most of the time with my daughter now. Irrelevant. Isn't sad?'

He wished to reach out, but he still could not – even after all this time, dared not – to offer a touch of comfort.

'But it's not like I have any other choice. Ever since Tom died…No, I don't really have a choice.'

Stevens heard in the way her voice broke, of days of isolation and heartbreak. And it was all because he had let his fear, his cowardice ruled him, make him absent when she'd needed him most.

'I would have come, if you'd told me.' He managed to croak out.

'But I don't know that, do I?' She snapped, temper suddenly flaring up like in the old days. But then, just as quickly, it deflated. It is as if all the strength had left her – perhaps it had, a long time ago. 'I'm not blaming you…it's that, I'm an old woman, Mr Stevens. I can't find it in me to be so bold anymore. The thought of risking my heart again terrifies me.'

She paused for long moments. 'You know, I've always felt, that time when we met in Clevedon, that there was something else you wanted to say to me. Other than to offer me a job, that is. On the bus ride home, that notion wouldn't leave me alone, and I got to thinking…if you had said something, maybe I would have stayed. But of course, I must be wrong. Because we are where we are now, and you can't dwell on the past forever, can you?'

The automatic reply teased the tip of his tongue, phrases he once used to put an end to an uncomfortable conversation, to hide from confronting his own heart. Yes, I quite agree, Mrs Benn.

Suddenly, he felt so very, very tired of hiding. And still, the train station drew ever nearer.

'I did write to you.' The words escaped him before he realised it. Finding it lacking, he tried to continue. 'I never sent them, of course – why that is, I'm not sure even now. But still…Still, I'd like you to know. That I did.'

The truth was out, at last. Mrs Benn did not reply – did not even give any indication that she had heard him at all, apart from the way the clouds from her exhaled breath seemed to still and dissipate.

When she did speak, it was a question. 'Mr Stevens. Did you mean to say something to me, when we were in Clevedon?'

Where could he begin? To answer her would be to recite the dozens of letters he had stacked up in his plain, empty room. It was too overwhelming, at that moment, to offer a response.

'…Is there anything you want to say to me, right now?'

He wanted to ask her forgiveness. To let her know he loved her. That he had missed her so terribly.

'I know I can't, but I keep wishing to turn back the clock.' The admission flowed out of him like a long-held sigh. The dam broke, and he found that he couldn't stop. 'My whole life had been for Lord Darlington, and to care for him and the house was my duty and pride. After he died, despite my failing eyes, my increasing mistakes, I tried to give the same standard of service to Mr Lewis. But I don't even have that now. You must see, Mrs Benn…Everything that I was, my devotion, my loyalty…I gave to Darlington Hall.'

His throat closed up, his eyes burned, and without volition, his hand flew up to his forehead, as if to shield himself, to maintain whatever dignity he still could. 'There is only the remains of my day to accompany me now, Mrs Benn. And if there is anything I have, it is time to think about what might have been.'

Stevens felt, rather than saw, her hand grabbed his own, brought it down from its hiding place on his forehead, offering comfort, at the same time seeking comfort for herself. His pretence for them to keep things uncomplicated was had fallen apart – it was futile to ignore what had happened, because whatever they did, it would always be there, weighing heavily on every word, every look.

He thought he had learned to be honest with himself. How wrong he was, and how right, that she was the one to coax this realisation out of him – the true Sarah Kenton, not the one of those letters in his imagination, silent, passive, unreal.

'Perhaps I shouldn't have given so much. Perhaps I should've thought more of myself…' He murmured, repeating the confession he had only made to an old butler years ago on a pier. '…and others dear to me. Yes. Perhaps I should have.'

She squeezed his hand tighter, and in her touch, he understood her absolution.

'I want to read them. Your letters.' Mrs Benn finally said, after a long pause, her voice was small and wavering, as if it took all her strength to utter that much.

Stevens guessed he did expect that, once he had let slip the confession. Yet when the request came, he still found himself at a loss for words. He had a sudden urge to deny, to run, to chase her away, if only out of long-held instincts of self-preservation. It was not something simple like her knowing that he read fanciful romance novels in his off time. Those letters were the most personal effects he had. To have her read them would be to expose himself completely, irretrievably, the act even more intimate than the most ardent embraces, somehow. The thought of himself being left so vulnerable paralysed him.

He was being a coward again, he thought. And there truly would be no second chances, this time.

Her face fell at his silence. The bus chose that moment to skid to a stop, having arrived at its destination. Mrs Benn took her hand back and began to stand up to pick up her luggage. Like a drowning man, his hand shot out to grab her at the elbow. She paused, looking at him with cautious eyes.

'They are…in my room. At the boarding house.'

'Then let's go back.'

It was a while before they were able to catch another bus to return, and by the time they reached the boarding house, the day had already approached noon. Stevens wanted to ask what Mrs Benn was going to do about her train, but he found himself preferring to leave the answer unknown. The desperation that spurred his burst of emotions was beginning to fade away, and all that was left was a sense of trepidation, at what she would say once she read all his thoughts for the past year.

Once they stood in front of his room, it seemed that she sensed his reluctance, for she reached out a hand to touch his elbow.

'Mr Stevens… You don't have to show them to me if you don't wish to.'

He could feel her eyes on him and chose to stare ahead.

'Would you stay if I don't?' They both knew the answer to that question, he thought, and suddenly, her request sounded like an ultimatum. All the while, her hands were still on him, and the touch was burning.

She shook her head. 'All I want is honesty from you. Nothing more.'

The truth is, even now, even after all the regrets and the years wasted, he still found it so damn difficult to voice his heart. Without those letters, perhaps he would barely acknowledge them in the first place. No, this was the only way.

He silently marvelled at the tenacity of Mrs Benn, so irritating and yet so dear. Even at the very end, he still needed her to help him to cross this final threshold.

'And I want you to read them.'

And cross the threshold they did.

The letters were kept stacked in a drawer in his writing desk, and he laid them out with the last one on top. 'I was writing that one yesterday when you arrived.' He said, and pointed.

She sat down on a chair and picked it up carefully, as though unsure what she would find in there, but soon was engrossed. A small smile played on her lips, and suddenly her reactions proved to be too much for him. He turned away to the window, trying to focus on the people walking by, the birds singing to each other, anything to take his mind off the fact that Sarah Benn was in his room, reading his maudlin words.

'Would you like some tea?' Stevens asked, all but ran to the kitchen without waiting for her answer. He quickly cast his mind back to the exact wording he had used, whether there was anything inappropriate or offensive. Whether they were enough to convince her of his heart, or would she go away nevertheless.

He was thinking in circles, and it was entirely unbecoming of him. He realised that, yet he still dawdled with the kettle. She probably would want some privacy in any case…

A noise from the other room startled him out of his thoughts, and Stevens popped his head out to see. He didn't know what he thought he'd find, but he certainly did not expect to see her chuckling heartily at something she'd read. Curious, he quickly finished pouring the tea and brought them to the writing desk.

At his approach, she looked up, the grin still on her face. She showed him the letter in her hand, and he recognised it instantly. It had been an unfortunate episode with a young man, who had decided to choose a spot just outside of his window to serenade the woman next door and kept him awake all night. He remembered thinking angrily to himself as he lay restless in his bed, that those scenes were fine and all within the pages of a novel, but terribly annoying and embarrassing in reality.

You wouldn't find me singing at your window any time soon, Miss Kenton, you can be sure of that , he had written.

Apparently, that had prompted an amusing image in her head and made her laugh. He looked down, sheepish. 'It wouldn't be very effective, anyway, seeing as I am a terrible singer.'

She looked at him, eyes twinkled with mirth. 'Oh, I'm sure it's the thought that counts, Mr Stevens.'

'Well, perhaps Mr Blackwell has a guitar I could borrow…' He humoured her and teased, hoping to prolong that smile.

But it was as if his words had broken some last restraint in her, as tears suddenly rolled down her face, one after another. She seemed just as surprised as him, when she reached up to find her cheeks wet. 'I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me…'

Still, the dam was broken, and she couldn't stop herself. He panicked, fumbling around for his handkerchief. She took it from his hands and covered her face in the piece of cloth to swallow her sobs. The sound tore his heart into shreds, and the next thing he knew, he was gathering her heaving form into his arms. He tried to pat her back soothingly, a frantic attempt to ease her suffering, when he realised he himself was trembling.

She buried her head in his shoulder and murmured into his clothes. 'Mr Stevens, if only…'

She did not have to finish the sentence. They both knew what she meant.

If only time could be rewound. If only I hadn't left. If only you had said anything. If only we'd been different.

'I'm sorry.' He mumbled, again and again into her hair, his heart breaking all over again. And then, because he yearned to call out for her, because there were no other names that he longed for more, 'Sarah'.

Sarah's breath hitched. She wrapped her arms around his back and held tight. He breathed in her scent, intoxicated at how warm she made him feel.

When her sobs finally died down, she looked up, and their eyes met. Her cheeks were shining, her eyes red-rimmed. He reached one hand up to wipe the tears away. 'You know, you ever need only to ask.' She whispered, maybe seeing the silent desperation in him.

Between them laid decades of wasted chances – of unsaid words, of sorrow and regrets. Twice he had failed to ask the one single question that mattered most, and they had both paid dearly for his mistake. But perhaps, they could still start anew. Perhaps, third time's the charm.

'Please stay. Please don't leave me.'

Sarah released a sigh like a great burden had escaped her at last. She leaned into his caressing hand and nodded. 'Yes, James.'

The sound of his given name from her lips brought a shiver down his spine, and he had never loved her more.

Stevens brought his other hand up to cup her face, tracing weathered lines, frowns that he had put there, smoothing them out, hoping to bring solace to her at last. Sarah gazed at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes and let out a soft moan. His fingers stroke her ears, her jaw, her lips, before both of them gave in and claimed each other's mouths in a searing first kiss.

'I love you'. He gasped out when they pulled apart, the need to say it overwhelming every part of his being. Their breaths were mingling together, her hands drawing circles on his back, and the sensation made him feel weak at his knees.

Sarah closed her eyes like she was savouring every syllable. 'I never thought I'd live to hear that.' She smiled, and returned the words. 'And I love you. Always have.'

He leaned in again to press a tender kiss to her forehead, slightly giddy at the fact that he actually could. She nuzzled at his neck, and he entertained the thought of staying there with her for eternity; yet, a small pragmatic voice in his brain insisted. 'What will happen now?', he asked.

Her answer was spoken into his skin, the vibration making him tremor. 'I don't know. But we'll figure it out together.'

Yes, together. Such a simple thing, that took them almost thirty years to reach. It was not perfect, they knew that. She still had her daughter's family to sort out. Their years were still pressing down on them, in the coughs he suffered every morning, in the thinning grey hair on both their heads. Yet, as Sarah's body pressed close to him, so close he could feel her rapid heartbeats, as he shakingly but surely tightened his arms around her, Stevens thought that the evening might be the best part of one's day after all.

END.

Notes: One day, I thought I'd take a break from my study with this classic film that was recommended to me ages ago. Little did I know it would consume my life for the next month.

If you liked it, please also check out these Remains fics by this amazing author: (thisiszircon dot dreamwidth dot org slash)?tag=stevens/kenton. Their work really inspired me to pick up the pen and write my own ending to the already brilliant but heartbreaking film.