Summer began to fade away; golden leaves fell from the branches. Colder days held onto the smell of homemade bread and the oven's warmth. Laughter filled the house, soft singing by night. Textbooks replaced novels, and the florist shop became more familiar than a classroom. Each morning, Edward woke with the sun to steal the cream from the milk bottle.

A new term of university followed the start of autumn. The summer break was almost over, putting an end to his busy mind. Dark thoughts had been replaced by moments with family and any task he could find. However, beneath the joys, a thought lingered — no letter from Samuel had come.

Harold was the first to brag about a letter unexpectedly arriving in the early weeks. He'd shared it with Edward when they bumped into each other. It talked of lavish parties, days of playing polo, and three-course meals.

"Lucky sod, isn't he?" Harold had a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

It was quiet in the library, only the gust of wind outside to be heard, the doors rattling occasionally. Books lined the walls, shelves standing tall in aisles. Near the windows, wooden chairs topped with velvet cushions were neatly tucked into the tables. Stacks of books piled up high. It was a place Edward would often lose himself — but somehow find others. There was a time he'd spotted Samuel and Harold huddled close, nose-deep into a romance novel.

Both young men came from money. Harold's grandparents owned a large estate in London and lived a life full of extravagance. His family spent many holidays in London attending parties and sporting events. Through these, he met a young Samuel.

Edward was full of envy — just not for what Harold expected. 

Things had been different with Samuel. The sudden distance and coldness were hard to understand. He believed they had grown close after sharing a bed and drunken chatter. The night was engraved in his head — he couldn't forget the way those words had made him feel: happy... yet confused. Memories returned often, and he could still remember Samuel's knuckles brushing his, the weight of boots pressed on his lap, slurred words filled with affection. The room had felt unfamiliar that night. When morning came, Samuel had moved hastily, stumbling before anyone woke. Reeking of rum and nursing a sore head, the air felt awkward. As they waved goodbye, they promised to meet again — yet by the next day, Samuel had gone to London. 

With no warning at all.

Edward considered writing first, but he couldn't — maybe Samuel wasn't reaching out for a reason. Had he misspoken or acted impolite? Perhaps he no longer wanted to associate with a working-class boy. The thought pained him, yet he couldn't stop worrying. After hesitating, he tapped Harold's arm, whispering, "Is he... all right? Down there, with everyone?"

A heavy door shut, and papers rustled in the background. More students began to enter the library, chatter flooding the previous quiet. Harold leaned in. "All's well, he says. Can't wait to come back here, though," he murmured, putting a hand on Edward's upper arm. "He'll be missing us lads — and his lady."

The words struck Edward; there was an itch in his throat. He hummed in acknowledgment. "You not visiting home? Must be nicer there."

"Spot on. Ah, the luxury of a private room — how I miss it!" Harold clutched his chest, a longing look on his face. Edward held back his laughter with difficulty. "I visited not long ago. A few days is enough of my older sister and her sprogs."

Edward smiled sympathetically. His own niece had been a difficult baby, crying terribly during the night, waking the household. It was impossible to forget the flustered look on Florence's face as she hurriedly soothed her daughter. It was a difficult period, but there were never any complaints. Judith helped to fill the hole George had left after his enlistment.

"My brother-in-law, poor devil. I'm certain he wishes he hadn't come home."

"From... the war?" Edward was nervous to speak, and each word spluttered out awkwardly.

"Aye. Coming home to all of this — must be a right headache."

It felt like a kick to the chest. 

Yet Harold meant no ill-will; he was purely making light of the noises at home, but Edward couldn't ignore it. The memories of George at his wedding, and holding Judith in his arms. What Harold's brother-in-law would experience would be something his brother should have had the opportunity to do.

A long life with his wife and child... now impossible.

...

Edward resorted to avoiding university, unable to speak of his grief or pain. Instead, he focused on making bread loaves with his mother and taking on more responsibility at the flower shop. Mrs Porch had shown a great interest in teaching him flower arrangement, something Edward had once been reluctant to learn, but was now eager to master. Each customer had their own message to tell; arranging a perfect bouquet became an important skill. With each day, he improved, flowers blooming together in bright bundles — much to Judith's dismay. She had enjoyed receiving his failed attempts.

One day, Edward was handling flowers in the back room when he heard Lisa, full of excitement. He peered around the corner to see her admiring the flowers on display, Nancy standing nearby. With a genuine smile on her face, she listened to Lisa's desire for a "gorgeous bouquet for my mother's birthday!" The request matched the floral arrangement Nancy had made for her own mother's birthday, with Edward's help. It was full of pinks and whites, peonies and carnations. Each flower carried a significant message.

As if on cue, Nancy came rushing towards him, reaching for the bouquet. She'd tied various ribbons around the stems; the flowers were wrapped in a sheer fabric. It was a truly beautiful bundle. 

Lisa gasped when she saw them, listening in awe as Nancy described each flower's meaning and handled them delicately like an art piece. As before, the flowers matched her outfit — a baby-pink dress with white detailing. She played with the buttons on her frock as she paid, leaning to look around the corner, searching for Edward. When she spotted him, she beamed; he could no longer hide away.

"She's a sweet girl. Is she courting?" Lisa whispered, giving Edward a look and raising her eyebrows, implying there could be a secret crush on Nancy. He shook his head with certainty, yet she continued to push — adamant that Edward wouldn't meet another fine lady like her.

"She's a friend," he breathed out, frustration in his throat. There was an uncomfortable silence. "Have you heard from Samuel?"

Lisa let out a soft giggle, tapping Edward on the arm. "Goodness! Sam would be so upset to hear you're turning down love." Handing Edward the flowers, Lisa pulled an open letter from her handbag. Immediately, he recognised the handwriting. "I received a letter today. He's all tired out, poor thing. He can't wait to return."

"Has he been writing you frequently?"

"Weekly. I find I'm running out of things to say." Her words hit him hard. Of course, he'd expected Samuel to write to his lover — but weekly? Weekly exchanges, yet nothing arrived for him? 

"Have you not heard from him?"

He shook his head, worried if he did speak, he would say the wrong thing. It would be impossible to say a word without his voice cracking. He reminded himself that Samuel had no obligation to write to him, but the constant thought of Samuel stirred up... feelings. The pain in his stomach was indescribable.

They weren't best friends. They weren't dating. Were they anything at all?

...

That night, he walked home, defeated. During the rest of the day, his mind had been flooded with Samuel — his smile, his laugh, his hands. Perhaps they would never speak again upon his return, and Edward would go back to silence and loneliness.

As he walked the path to his front door, he glanced up to see smoke coming from the chimney. The air was turning cold, and he could not wait to be inside a warm house. When he took another step, he felt a pressure against his leg. A fluffy ginger cat walked by. Judith had named it Ed — she'd point to her uncle's hair, then at the cat, before laughing to herself.

His mother greeted him at the door as he pushed it open, "Good evening, Eddie." She wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, smelling of bread and soap. Her hands cupped his face, warming his rosy red cheeks; Edward no longer felt cold. Over his mother's shoulder, he could see washing hanging from the ceiling and a bubbly Judith. She sat on the kitchen table, swinging her legs, a ginger biscuit in hand. Beside her was clean laundry, folded onto wooden chairs that had no cushion. A tower of towels, hid a plate of biscuits.

"I saw the cat outside. Gave me a jump," Edward said, reaching for a ginger nut. "Can I take Judy to see it?"

"Of course," his mother softly said as she folded another towel to add to her tower. "Oh, wait!"

Edward paused.

"A letter arrived today for you."

...

"What's with the long face, son?"

His father looked over the newspaper. A gentle, quiet man who never raised his voice or hand to anyone in the family. Edward shared all of his thoughts with father; he listened and voiced his opinion kindly.

But these complicated feelings — Edward wasn't sure he could discuss them.

He shook his head and spoke quietly, "No reason." He fiddled with the letter in his hands, hoping to uncover a hidden message. "Samuel wrote to say he'll be back next week."

The rustling of a newspaper was followed by his father's voice. "Is Samuel courting?"

Time paused. A question so innocent sent a wave of nerves through Edward; his stomach churned. Samuel was still seeing Lisa, still writing to Lisa, still loving Lisa. "Yes," Edward croaked, his throat dry. "Has been for some time now."

He watched his father rise, filling the kettle under the tap. The gas hob was lit before he joined Edward again. "You know, I met your mother around your age. I must have just turned 20. A year later, we were wed and expecting Andrew."

Edward only listened to the bubbling water, watching the soot move on his father's chin.

"It took time before we could welcome you — really tough years. But we did, thank God. You completed our family."

Edward tapped his foot on the floor. He wished for the kettle to whistle, interrupting his father — but it never came. 

"I just —" His father sighed before placing a hand on Edward's. Compared to his father's worked hands, Edward's looked small. "You'll meet a young lady soon. Like your friend has. Like our George did."

Had the kettle whistled? Edward couldn't be sure. The mention of George had created a wave of memories: introducing Florence, laughing and drinking before the wedding, crying at the altar, holding Judith.

George waving goodbye for the last time.

A cup of tea was placed before him. There was a hand on his shoulder, followed by a firm squeeze. "You are kind, a decent bloke. Meet a good woman and be a fine father, won't you?"

Edward nodded, unable to meet his father's kind eyes. "Aye. I will."

A white lie.