The Afternoon You Did Not Reach For Me

The afternoon you did not reach for me I stood beside you in the churchyard and felt the space where your hand might have been grow heavier than any touch.

Clouds hung low and unmoving as if painted there. The stones were damp from a morning rain and smelled of earth and age. A bell had rung not long before and its echo still seemed trapped in the air. You faced the grave with your hat pressed to your chest. I stood close enough to feel the heat from your body through my sleeve. When the prayer ended people shifted and turned away. You stepped back at the same moment I did. Our hands remained apart. I knew then that whatever we were carrying would not be laid down.

The town had been founded on patience. It took patience to work the soil and patience to wait for ships that came when they pleased. Houses were built low against the wind and lives were built the same way. I taught children letters in a room that smelled of chalk and wool. You repaired clocks and watches in a narrow shop filled with ticking that never quite fell silent. Time surrounded you. Time obeyed you. Or so it seemed.

We began as neighbors who shared a well and an understanding of quiet. I would pass your shop each morning and hear the small precise sounds of your work. Sometimes you looked up and smiled without stopping. That smile followed me all day. In the evenings we walked the long way home along the fields where grass bent under its own weight. You spoke of mechanisms and balance. I spoke of children and their questions. We learned each other in pieces that felt harmless.

Summer made us careless. The air grew thick and warm. We sat by the river and let our feet dangle in the water. One afternoon thunder rolled in the distance and the sky darkened quickly. We took shelter beneath an old tree. Rain came hard and sudden. You laughed once surprised and free. I watched the sound leave your mouth and wished I could keep it. When the rain slowed you brushed wet hair from your eyes and your hand lingered near my face. You drew it back slowly as if testing a boundary you already knew.

It was understood that you would marry well. Your mother spoke of it often with pride that left little room for doubt. I listened and smiled and said nothing. At night I lay awake hearing the clocks in your shop count hours I could not claim. I told myself that wanting was a private thing and could not change what was right.

When your father died the town gathered as it always did. That was the day in the churchyard when your grief stood between us like a wall. Afterward you thanked people quietly. When you came to me your eyes were hollow with fatigue. I wanted to reach for you and did not. You wanted the same. We both knew it and neither moved.

After that you withdrew into your work. The ticking grew louder when I passed your door. I continued my lessons. Children learned to write their names and forgot them again. Seasons turned. The space between us hardened into something shaped by habit. Still on some evenings you waited by the field path and we walked together as before. We spoke less. Silence stretched and held.

One night you told me that an engagement had been arranged. You said it as if reading a fact from a ledger. I congratulated you. My voice was steady. The stars were sharp above us. I remember thinking how small they looked despite their distance. You said my name once then turned away. I walked home alone.

The wedding came and went. I attended. I smiled. Life continued. I married later a man who offered kindness and certainty. We shared years of honest companionship. When he died I mourned him with a grief that had room to breathe.

Decades passed. One autumn afternoon I found a broken watch among my things one you had repaired long ago. The glass was cracked. It no longer kept time. I held it and felt the weight of years settle. On impulse I went to your shop. It was closed. A sign hung crookedly.

I learned you had moved to the coast. That your wife had died young. That you still worked with time. When I finally saw you again it was by chance in the market of a neighboring town. Your hair was white. Your hands still moved with care. You recognized me at once.

We walked together as if no time had passed. We spoke of our lives. We spoke of nothing else. At last you stopped and said that some afternoons remain unfinished forever. I nodded. I said that not reaching can be a choice we live inside.

When we parted you touched my sleeve briefly. The contact was light and complete. I walked away feeling the ache open and close like a door finally used. That evening as light faded I set the broken watch on my table and listened to the quiet and let it be enough.