A wee drabble from chickwriter's prompt of "Mary and Charles. 1970s UK."
He found her on the bench under the ancient cedar, the spot she had avoided for decades, but had been drawn to more often in recent years.
"You didn't tell me you were going for a walk. I was worried when I couldn't find you inside."
Brown eyes met his, gentle smile as sweet as ever on a face that has been caressed gently with lines of age. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the fog of her gaze clear, the tensing of her lips as she tried to keep her smile steady. He couldn't help but count the seconds until recognition would settle in those eyes of hers.
Four.
Five.
"I didn't think you would want to join me."
Always the clever girl. He couldn't help but smile at her graceful cover, no matter how much it might break his heart. "When have I not wanted to join you?"
The cold air of late autumn made his hands ache, even through the leather gloves he wore. Settling down beside her, he reached to take her hand in both of his, the feathery weight of her slender fingers immediately chasing the pain from his joints.
"I've missed our bench," she mused, gazing up at the bright blue of the sky through the lace of branches.
His eyes drifted shut as the weight of too many ghosts pressed in around them. He swallowed hard, pressing her hand ever so gently between his. "Yes, our bench," he echoed hollowly, before brushing a gentle kiss across her still pale cheek.