**Shadows of Love**
In a quiet village nestled between endless fields and misty hills, the air was thick with autumn melancholy. Early October wrapped everything in a chilly breath, and leaves, spinning in gusts of wind, vanished into nowhere, as if carrying away the last traces of warmth. That evening, the house on the edge of the village, where Edward lived, was alive with noise—floorboards creaked, glasses clinked, and laughter spilled far beyond the yard.
“Hey, mate!” Edward flung the door open, welcoming his childhood friend Christopher, who’d come from the city. His voice trembled with joy, but a flicker of unease danced in his eyes, as if he sensed this visit would turn everything upside down.
“Alright, then!” Christopher gave him a firm hug. “Four months since we last met—back when we buried my gran. Work’s been mad. Finally got some time off. Fancied a proper break out here in the sticks.”
“Brilliant idea!” Edward grinned. “We’ll go fishing, up by the lake past the hill. Remember how we used to muck about by the river as kids?” His smile held a quiet sorrow.
They’d been inseparable growing up—racing down dusty paths, scrumping apples from orchards, swimming in the icy river. Christopher was always the ringleader, full of wild schemes, while Edward was his shadow, ready for any adventure. Their friendship seemed unbreakable, like the old oak at the edge of the village.
“So, just you here? Where’s your missus?” Christopher glanced around the cosy but slightly worn house.
“Amelia’s just popped to the shop—she’ll be back soon. She’s a proper homemaker, cooks like a dream,” Edward said proudly, though a shadow crossed his tone. “Feeds me so well I’ll soon not fit through the door.”
Edward and Amelia had been married seven years, but they had no children. They’d seen doctors, run tests, but the answer was always the same: “Everything’s fine, just wait.” Edward adored his wife—helped around the house, never let her lift anything heavy, treated her like porcelain. The neighbours gossiped—some envious, some disapproving. “Amelia’s lucky,” they’d say. “Edward worships the ground she walks on, doesn’t drink, loves her to bits.” Yet sometimes, Amelia felt that love smother her like a scarf tied too tight.
“Hello,” came Amelia’s soft but weary voice as she returned from the shop, lugging a heavy bag. Edward immediately snatched it from her and carried it to the kitchen, as if afraid she’d strain herself.
“Alright?” Christopher smiled, his gaze lingering on her slender frame and dark, slightly tousled hair. “I’m Christopher, Edward’s mate. Grew up together.”
“Ed never mentioned you,” Amelia said, glancing at her husband.
“Ah, he’s a city boy now,” Edward explained, returning from the kitchen. “Moved after school. His gran, Aunt Margaret, lived at the other end of the village—remember? You’re not from here, so you wouldn’t know Chris.”
“Right, Aunt Margaret,” Amelia nodded. “So you’re her grandson.”
“Spot on,” Christopher chuckled. “City life now, but roots are here.”
“Right, Em, we’ll take a stroll—you work your magic in the kitchen,” Edward said, and he and Christopher stepped outside.
It was the weekend, and Amelia’s holiday started Monday. Autumn was settling in—leaves blazed crimson, cobwebs drifted in the air, and the wind hummed its mournful tune. Amelia set the table in the garden under an old birch tree. Indoors felt too stifling. By the time the men returned, she’d laid out plates of snacks and homemade elderflower wine.
“Chris, I’m chuffed you’re here!” Edward cheered, pouring the wine. “We’ll tear it up fishing, just like the old days. Remember herding sheep with my grandad? Or raiding orchards?”
“Blimey, Ed, don’t remind me,” Christopher laughed, clapping his friend’s shoulder. “This place is my soul, my home. The city’s just noise.”
Amelia watched them, struck by their bond. They reminisced, joked, laughed, and her heart squeezed at the warmth she couldn’t share. She stood, remembering the pie in the oven, and soon returned with golden pastry.
“Is that homemade pie? Amelia, you’re a saint!” Christopher exclaimed, taking a bite. “Never tasted anything like it!”
“Aye, my Em’s a marvel,” Edward beamed. “Feeds me up so much my shirt buttons’ll ping off!”
They sat till dusk, laughing over old stories. Amelia studied Christopher—too handsome, too charming, with a sly grin and mischief in his eyes. “City lads like him never settle,” she thought. Yet something in his gaze made her pulse quicken.
From then on, Christopher visited often. Edward was at work, but evenings and weekends were for fishing trips or backyard barbecues with old mates. September’s warmth held, and they grilled their catch over a fire, surrounded by mates. One evening, Amelia caught Christopher’s gaze—deep, burning, anything but friendly. She realised: he fancied her. That knowledge lit a long-forgotten spark.
Later, when night fell, Amelia went to lock the shed. The latch creaked, and turning, she nearly bumped into Christopher.
“Blimey, what are you doing here?” she gasped.
“Same as you—admiring the stars?” he teased.
“Just shutting the shed. Hens’ll scatter by morning,” she said, cheeks warm.
“I followed you, Amelia,” he murmured. “I’m mad about you. Fell for you the moment I saw you. Can’t you tell?”
“Chris, have you had too much?” She stepped back, voice shaky.
“No. Dead serious. Two weeks I’ve thought of nothing but you.” His eyes glinted in the dark.
“Amelia!” Edward’s voice rang out, and she jerked away.
“Shed’s locked,” she called, forcing calm. “Hens won’t escape.”
“You here too?” Edward frowned at Christopher.
“Just getting some air,” Christopher laughed, as Amelia waved and hurried inside.
That night, Amelia tossed and turned. “Why do I even think of him? Probably breaks hearts left and right in the city. And my marriage means nothing to him.” But his words burned like embers, impossible to forget.
Next day, Christopher came while Edward was at work. Amelia opened the door to his familiar knock.
“Hey,” he smiled, stepping in. “Missed you.”
“Chris, I thought we were joking last night,” she said, but her voice betrayed her.
“Joking? I’m in love, Amelia. Life’s nothing without you.”
Before she knew it, her resolve melted. His hands gently clasped hers; his whispers melted her doubts. Amelia yearned to be just herself—not a wife, not a homemaker, just a woman. Christopher was dazzling, his attention intoxicating.
“You’re everything,” he whispered, pulling her close.
Later, cheeks flushed and breath uneven, Amelia watched Christopher devour her pie at the kitchen table.
“Always dreamed of a wife like you,” he said. “Gorgeous, brilliant cook, real as they come.”
“Thanks, Chris,” she smiled. “See you tonight.”
After he left, Amelia floated. Even the autumn gloom felt golden, her heart singing. Then guilt struck: “Why did I marry Edward? Should’ve waited—what if this is fate?”
When Edward returned, reality crashed down. She cooked supper, but the light inside her dimmed.
Their secret meetings continued. Christopher’s words left her dizzy—she’d never known men like him. But one day, he said:
“Amelia, my holiday’s ending. I’m leaving soon. This’ll stop.”
“Can’t you stay?” she pleaded. “Live here, commute.”
“You really want that?” His eyes narrowed.
“Yes. I can’t be without you.”
“I’ll go, but I’ll be back in two weeks. It’ll all work out,” he promised. “And Edward… he doesn’t matter when I’ve got you.”
Christopher left. Amelia ached. When her holiday ended, she made her choice: left Edward with a note—*“Ed, our seven years are over. I’ve fallen for someone else. You’ll understand soon.”* She moved in with her divorced friend, Lucy.
“Em, this is daft,” Lucy sighed. “How’d you even tell him?”
“Left a note,” Amelia muttered. “Chris’ll be back. We’ll live in his house.”
Edward didn’t come looking. Autumn turned bitter, rain lashing the village. Amelia waited, but she’d never taken Christopher’s number—love had blinded her. Three weeks later, she saw lights in his windows and ran over, heart racing.
“Chris, I left Edward! I’m free!” she blurted, rushing to him.
“Why’d you do that?” His voice was coldBut as the years passed in quiet contentment, the shadows of that autumn faded into memories, and the love that had once faltered grew steadier, deeper, like the roots of the old oak at the edge of the village.
