George & Sarah Pt. 02

George looked over at the clock on the kitchen wall. 3:04 pm.

He couldn't settle. He got up and carried his cup to the sink and rinsed it under the tap. He dried it and took it over to the cupboard and put it away.

He sat back down at the table and looked over at the clock again. 3:06 pm.

When the knock finally came he hurried up the hallway and opened the door.

"Hi, George."

He stood there for a moment.

"Is everything ok, George?"

"I was worried about you."

"Are we just going to stand here?"

"Sorry," he said, stepping back and letting her come inside.

"Why were you worried? I told you I had a doctor's appointment."

"I know but is everything ok?"

"Yes, George, just routine women's stuff. They were running late."

She could see the concern on his face and stepped closer to him. She put her hand on his cheek and leaned in and kissed him gently.

"I'm ok alright."

She slipped off her shoes then took hold of his hand and led him down the hallway.

"Where are we sitting?"

"I was in the kitchen."

They went and sat at the table. He let out a slow breath as the lingering tension finally drained from his shoulders. He looked at her for a moment.

"Are you hungry, Sarah?"

"What are you thinking of?"

"I've got some pasta, garlic, meatballs, and a jar of pasta sauce."

"Sounds yummy. Can I help?"

Working together in the kitchen was something he hadn't done with anyone. For him preparing food had been a solitary routine.

"I'd like that."

He filled the saucepan with water, set it on the hob, and turned on the gas.

"Shall I brown the meatballs?" she asked as he started chopping an onion and some garlic.

"Please. The frying pan is in the cupboard beside the back door."

They worked together, getting everything ready to add to the pasta and sauce. When the food was ready, they served up and sat at the table.

"Smells good," she said as she took a bite. "It tastes good too."

He looked up and smiled. "Teamwork."

She smiled. "Teamwork."

"When we were at the beach a couple of weeks ago you said you'll just see what happens tomorrow."

"I remember."

"I've been thinking. It sounds like you're waiting for something to happen."

He thought about it for a moment. "So what are you suggesting?"

"Maybe you should decide what happens."

"I wouldn't know where to start. I've always had routines."

"And now I've become part of that routine."

He smiled. "I like that part of my routine."

She smiled. "I know, so do I, but maybe do something outside of your routine."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet, but we can figure it out together if you want."

He looked down at his plate, a quiet, thoughtful expression crossing his face, before he finally nodded.

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. It's just the thought of moving out of my comfort zone."

"You moved out of your comfort zone when you let me in."

He looked up. "I guess I did."

They cleared the table together. He washed the plates and pans in the warm soapy water, while she stood beside him with a tea towel doing the drying up.

"I should get going," she said softly, when everything was put away.

They walked to the front door and she put her shoes on.

She stepped forward and leaned in to give him a lingering kiss.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

He smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow, Sarah."

He watched her walking up the road before turning around and going indoors.

As he lay in bed that night he didn't know what was coming next. Only that things were going to change. He was terrified, but at the same time he knew that she'd be with him every step of the way. He wanted his life to change.

He wanted to stop hiding.

At 1 pm he stood by the front room window, looking out on the quiet road outside.

A week ago she'd suggested that she walk to his house instead of him coming to the shop. It was meant to be a small break to his routine. He'd agreed to give it a try.

Ten minutes later he saw her walk down the path.

"Hi," she said, stepping inside and slipping off her jacket and hanging it on the hook.

"Hi, Sarah. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"After the morning I've had I'd love one."

They were sitting on the sofa in the living room.

"I've been thinking. You mentioned the back garden needed some work. Do you think we should start there?"

"The two of us?" he asked.

"Yes, the two of us," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "Let's finish our tea then go take a look."

A little while later they stood up and walked to the patio doors, sliding them open letting the cool air into the house. They stepped out onto the patio and walked down the garden. Brambles, ivy and weeds covered a large part of the ground, stretching out towards the back fence.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"I'm sure. Shall we start on it tomorrow? I've got some old clothes at the flat I could bring with me."

"Ok."

She leaned into him.

"We have a plan for tomorrow then, George. But for now... shall we get to know each other a bit better."

He felt a flush in his cheeks as she took his hand and led him indoors towards his bedroom.

There was less hesitation in his movements now, the awkwardness of the first time was gone now they had been to his bedroom together a few times since then. He unbuttoned his shirt and laid it on the chair. She reached for him, her hands sliding over his bare shoulders.

She unbuttoned her blouse and laid it beside his shirt.

"You're watching me again," she murmured, as she removed the rest of her clothes.

"I can't help it. You're beautiful."

"So you keep telling me," she said as she pushed his trousers down his legs and he stepped out of them.

She stepped closer, pressing herself against him, and kissed him--a lingering kiss that still made his knees weaken.

They climbed onto the bed together. She moved over him and settled across his lap. He reached up, his hands finding her waist, before sliding up to cup her breasts as she lowered herself onto him.

His breath caught as he filled her, a low groan breaking from his throat. She arched her back and began to move.

He kept his eyes fixed on her face, watching every change of expression as the friction built between them. She increased the pace, her hands coming down to grip his shoulders as he began to move with her.

He gripped her hips, driving upwards as she cried out, her body shuddering around him that pulled a ragged gasp from his own lips. He followed her over the edge.

For a long time neither of them moved. He lay beneath her, listening to the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

She shifted finally, sliding off him to lay beside him. He rolled to face her, pulling the duvet up over them.

The next morning he put the last of his breakfast dishes away in the cupboard then went and changed into his gardening clothes.

He went to the shed and took a pair of loppers off the hook and made his way down the garden.

The rest of the morning was spent clearing a narrow path along the left fence line. He worked methodically, snapping the woody stems of the overhanging brambles and pulling away thick ropes of ivy.

Every so often he paused to stack the cut branches into a neat pile to one side.

He was back indoors by 1 pm, waiting for her to arrive.

"Hi, George," she said, holding up a canvas bag. "I'm ready for work."

"I've already made a start."

"I hope you've left me something to do."

He laughed. "Don't worry there's still plenty that needs doing."

"Can I use your bedroom to change?"

"Go ahead."

A few minutes later, she emerged wearing a faded pair of jeans and an oversized flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She had an old pair of trainers in her hand.

"Will I do?" she asked, spinning around.

"Practical."

She laughed. "I'll take practical as a compliment."

They walked across the patio to the wooden shed by the side of the house. She looked inside, the space was as tidy as inside his house. Rakes, spades, forks, and a long-handled lopper hung from wooden pegs on the side of the shed. There were trowels and various smaller secateurs laid out on a wooden table.

"You have two of everything in here."

"Yes. My mum and dad worked the garden together. These are their tools."

"They look in very good condition."

"I take care of them."

She looked at him. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

"It's the only way I know."

"What do I need?"

He reached onto a shelf near the back and pulled down a pair of heavy-duty leather gardening gloves and handed them to her.

She pulled them on, but as she clenched her fists, the thick leather fingers flopped empty at her fingertips. She held her hands up, laughing.

"Well, these might slow me down a bit," she said, wiggling her giant fingers like paws. "I could probably pick up big stuff, but pulling up a weed might be a problem."

"I could cut the ends off for you if that would help."

"No it's alright, I'll manage. Right, what tool do I need?"

He took the other pair of loppers off the hook and handed them to her.

"Start with these."

They stepped out to the edge of the overgrown rear section.

"You can see where I've started. Maybe start at the other end."

She gripped the handles of the long loppers, her gloves bunching awkwardly around the rubber grips.

He stood a few feet away, hooking his lopper around a thick, woody stem. He squeezed the handles together, snapping it cleanly at the base.

She tried the same manoeuvre. Her first attempt missed the target entirely as the stiff leather prevented her from feeling the grip. She adjusted her hold, wrapped both hands firmly around the handles, and squeezed. The loppers sheared through a cluster of brambles.

"Got it," she said, tossing the cut vines onto the bare patch of ground behind her.

He worked down the line, pulling the severed branches away from the fence and stacking them into a pile. She began clearing the lower growth while he tackled the thicker branches.

She let out a huff, stopping to shake her hands. "I feel like a cartoon bear."

He paused, resting his weight on his loppers.

He smiled. "Let me see."

She stepped closer to him and with a bit of tucking and folding at the cuffs, he managed to secure the leather gloves a little better against her palms, though the tips still hung empty.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much better. Now I can at least pretend I know what I'm doing." She grinned at him.

"Let's cut what we've chopped down so far into smaller pieces so we can get them in the garden waste bin."

After a while he went and wheeled it down to where they were working and opened the lid.

They began picking up the smaller pieces and dropping them in the bin. When it was full he dragged it back up the path.

"What now?" she asked.

"Pile the rest to one side for now."

Finally they got the area cleared to ground level and everything chopped into smaller pieces.

"That's enough for today," he said.

They stepped back to admire what they'd done.

"Teamwork did that, George," she said, sliding her arm around his waist.

"That was the easy part. Tomorrow is digging the roots up."

She looked at him. "That's tomorrow. For now shall we get cleaned up and go get some food from the takeaway next door to the shop?"

"You have a plan."

"Is it better than a routine?"

"Yes. It is."

The following afternoon armed with forks they both made their way down to the patch they had cleared the day before.

"Right," she said, pulling on the oversized leather gloves with the floppy fingertips.

"Where do we start?"

"Let me adjust your gloves first."

She leaned in and gave him a kiss as he was turning back the cuffs.

"What was that for?"

"Impulse I guess, George. Are you complaining?"

He smiled. "No. I don't think I've ever done anything on impulse."

"You should give it a try."

"This won't get the work done. We need to use the fork first to break up the hard dirt and lever the root balls loose."

He pressed the tines of the garden fork into the compacted soil with his boot, rocking it back and forth until the earth gave way, exposing a thick knot of roots. With a steady heave he pried the roots upwards.

She watched closely, then positioned her fork a few inches away, driving the tines in and working them deep to loosen the surrounding dirt.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Good. Keep working the edges."

For the next hour, they worked in a quiet, steady rhythm. Whenever a root ball proved too stubborn to lift with the fork alone, he stepped in with a spade to slice through the taproots, while she cleared away the loose dirt with a trowel.

"Got it," she said triumphantly, wrenching a particularly stubborn root ball free from the ground and holding it up like a trophy.

He smiled, leaning on the handle of his fork. "You're getting the hang of it."

"It's all in the teamwork," she laughed, tossing the tangled roots onto the pile.

By mid-afternoon, bare earth stretched where the dense wall of brambles had been.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt on his skin. "That's the worst of it done."

She looked at the cleared patch, then over at him. "What a difference eh, George. You can actually see the fence now."

She took a step back and planted her foot straight into a patch of slick freshly turned mud. With a sudden squelch, her foot gave out, and before she could catch her balance, she went down with a thud.

George dropped his fork instantly and hurried over, a jolt of panic shooting through him. "Sarah are you alright?"

For a second she just lay there in the soil. Then looking down at her jeans and the oversized gloves now caked in dark mud she burst out laughing.

He let out a long breath, the sudden worry gone as a smile broke across his face.

She looked up at him with mud smeared across her cheek.

"Well, so much for looking like a professional."

"Are you hurt?" he asked, extending both hands.

"Just my pride," she said, taking his hands and letting him pull her up.

He brushed the mud off her cheek and leaned in and kissed him.

"Impulse, George?"

He smiled. "Maybe."

They cleaned up the tools and put them back in the shed.

"Do you want to use the bathroom to clean up?"

"Would you mind if I had a shower? I've got mud everywhere."

She caught him off guard for a moment.

Sarah saw the hesitation.

"George?" she asked quietly. "Is something wrong?"

"No, everything's alright. Just caught me by surprise."

"I can wait until I get home."

He smiled. "How could I let you walk home looking like that? Of course you can use the shower."

"Thank you." She slipped her shoes off and left them on the patio.

"I'll come up with you and get you some towels."

After giving her the towels he went downstairs to his bedroom, changed out of his gardening clothes and went into the kitchen.

A while later he heard her coming down the stairs. He went out into the hallway. When he saw her wrapped in the bath towel and carrying her dirty gardening clothes he stopped and stared at her.

"What's the matter, George?"

"Your hair."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It's just I've only ever seen you with it tied up."

"You like it down?"

"It makes you look even prettier."

"Oh, George you charmer."

She put her dirty washing down on the floor by the back door and made her way into his bedroom to get dressed.

"Seeing as you like my hair down do you want to dry it for me?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "Me? Dry your hair?"

She passed him the hand towel.

"It's the least you can do since I dug up your garden for you."

"Ok." He stood there for a second. She turned her back to him. He stepped behind her, hesitating for a moment, then gently laid the towel over her head.

He started with the ends, rubbing the damp strands between the folds of the towel, then carefully worked his way up to her scalp. His movements were cautious at first, but she leaned back against him slightly, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.

"Gentle as always, George."

A little while later she turned around to face him, letting the bath towel drop to the floor.

"Thank you, George. Now I think one of us is a little overdressed."

She reached over and pulled his top up, gently easing it over his head.

He felt that familiar flush in his neck but went with the flow.

That evening after she'd gone home he picked up her dirty gardening clothes, checked the washing instructions and put them in the machine. When they were clean and dry he folded them carefully and put them in his bedroom.

The following morning he was back in the garden with his wheelbarrow in tow. He went over to his compost heap and began shovelling it in before wheeling it back and tipping it out on the bare earth.

He spent the rest of the morning carefully forking it into the soil.

By 1 pm he was all cleaned up and back indoors waiting.

"Hi, George, how was your morning?"

"Productive," he said, taking her jacket and hanging it on the hook. "The compost is in."

She smiled, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. "You didn't have to do that by yourself."

"I know. But it's all done now."

"Come show me," she said, taking his hand.

They walked out into the garden.

"That looks so much better, doesn't it."

"It does."

"Did anything used to grow there?"

"My mum grew tulips there."

"Would you grow tulips again?"

He thought back to the way his mum and dad used to spend hours out here tending to the garden.

"I think I would. Maybe a little reminder of them."

"When can you plant tulips?"

"About now."

"Really."

"Yes."

"Would you like to go and get some?"

"There isn't anywhere around here that would sell them."

"What about the garden centre on the other side of town."

"That's too far to walk."

"We could get the bus, George."

His head dropped and he looked away. The silence stretched between them as he processed what she was suggesting. The thought of sitting among strangers made his chest tighten.

She didn't push, she simply waited.

"Have I said something wrong?" she said when he looked up.

"No. It's just that I've never been on a bus--ever. I've never been anywhere apart from the small supermarket, the post office and your shop."

She didn't say anything for a moment. She just stepped closer, closing the small distance between them, and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against him.

He looked at her, his shoulders tense.

"Well," she murmured. "You wouldn't have to do it alone."

He let out a slow, shaky breath, the rigidness in his body finally easing as he wrapped his arms around her.

"When?" he asked quietly.

"What about now? Before you have a chance to change your mind."

He swallowed hard and gave a single nod. "Ok."

A little while later they were standing at the bus stop. She could feel him shaking ever so slightly as they waited for the bus. She squeezed his hand.

Ten minutes later he saw the bus turn the corner.

"Is this one ours?"

"Yes."

With a deep breath, he said. "Ok, let's do this."

She bought return tickets for the two of them and they took their seats on the lower deck.

He was sitting in the window seat looking at a world that he'd locked himself away from for twenty years.

He kept his eyes fixed on the glass.

"Are you ok, George?"

He turned to face her.

"It's changed so much to how I remember it."

"One step at a time, George. There's no rush."

Eventually, the bus pulled up outside the garden centre.

He took one look at the size of it. It was huge.

"This definitely wasn't here when I was a kid."

She took his arm and they made their way in. She grabbed a basket just inside the entrance.

He froze, struggling to process the sheer size of it.

She noticed the tension in his shoulders.

"It's a lot to take in all at once, George. Are you going to be ok?"

He let out a slow shaky breath and nodded.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let's find the garden section."

They walked past rows of vibrant houseplants, towering seasonal displays, and spinning card stands. He stared as they passed shelves packed with scented candles, kitchen equipment, and endless racks of seeds. The scale of it and amount of colour and noise compared to the quiet monotony of his life was beyond him.

"Over there," she said, pointing to a sign directing them to garden plants.

They made their way over to the doors and walked through into the open-air garden area.

It was a lot quieter out here.

"Wow," is all he could say when he saw the vast array of plants.

She let out a soft laugh.

"You're not going to be a kid in a sweet shop are you, George," she said teasingly.

"Not today."

After walking along the rows and him stopping to look at a few odd plants along the way, they finally found the large wooden crates housing the bulbs.

"What's your favourite colour?"

He turned to look at her. "Blonde."

She laughed. "I don't think they come in that colour."

He smiled. "Guess it's got to be yellow then."

"How many do you think we need?"

"About 200 to start with."

"That's a lot of digging."

They picked up the bags of bulbs and put them in the basket.

"Here, let me take that," he said when they were ready.

"Now we need bulb planters."

"What do they do?"

"Easier to explain it when we find them."

They found them in the next aisle. He picked one up.

"You push this into the soil, give it a twist and when you remove it there's a hole left behind. You put the bulb in the hole, the right way up, then squeeze the handle and it releases the soil back into the hole."

"What's the right way up?"

"One side of the bulb has a pointed tip. That needs to be planted pointing up."

"Got it."

He put two in the basket. "Right one more stop."

"What's that for?"

"To find some gardening gloves that fit you. I think I saw them by the doors we came out here through."

She stood in front of the rack and tried on a few pairs for size.

"What colour suits me do you think?"

"I wouldn't worry about colour, you'll soon get them covered in mud."

She laughed.

"Get a couple of pairs so you have a spare. Just in case of accidents."

"What are you implying, George?"

"Me. Nothing."

"Yeah right."

They made their way to the checkout and he put the basket on the counter. She went and grabbed a couple of carrier bags and started bagging up. He pulled out his wallet and took out his debit card and paid for the shopping.

They walked back to the bus stop and sat on the bench.

"How are you doing, George?"

"It was scary," he admitted. "But I'm glad I did it."

When they got onto the bus he felt a little more at ease than he had on the journey there. He didn't keep his eyes fixed rigidly to the glass, but began to take more notice of what was going on around him on the bus and out in the street.

When they finally reached his front door and stepped inside, the house felt different. It wasn't the place where he locked the world out anymore; it was a place they shared their afternoons together as a team.

After a cup of tea, she kissed him softly at the front door before heading home, leaving him with the quiet anticipation of the work waiting for them tomorrow.

By late morning he'd prepared the ingredients for a sausage casserole and added them to the slow cooker. He switched it on and set it to low at 12:30pm.

By the time she knocked on the door, he had the bulb planter and kneeling mats set out in the garden alongside the bulbs.

"Ready for the two hundred?" she asked, dropping her jacket on the hook.

"I'm ready."

"Good, just let me get changed," she said as she made her way to the kitchen.

"They're in the bedroom on the chair."

She went into the bedroom and came back out with the clothes on her arm.

"You washed them for me."

"I read the instructions first. Hope that was ok."

She walked up to him and gave him a big kiss.

"Thank you. That was a lovely thing to do."

After she got changed they went out into the garden. He picked up the bulb planters and a bag of bulbs, and they walked over to the freshly composted patch.

"Show me how this works again."

He knelt down on the soil. He pressed the metal cylinder of the planter into the loose earth, twisting it slightly until it sank eight inches deep, then twisted it and pulled it up. A neat plug of dark soil came out with it. He dropped a yellow bulb into the hole, squeezed the handle on the planter, and the dirt slid back down over it.

"That's it," she said.

She tried it next. She jammed the planter straight down to the same depth, twisted it and pulled it up smoothly, dropped a bulb in, and squeezed the trigger. The dirt fell back into place without a hitch.

"Got it," she said, looking down at the small patch of disturbed earth.

He reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of bulbs. "We shouldn't put them in straight lines," he said, looking at the bare earth. "My mum always grouped them together in natural clusters. About eight inches apart so they've got room to spread."

"Clusters it is," she smiled. "Lead the way."

For the next hour, they fell into a rhythm across the cleared patch of earth, scattering the bulbs loosely about eight inches apart on top of the soil. Once he was satisfied they were in the right place they began planting them.

After about fifty bulbs, she straightened up, rubbing her lower back.

"My back is going to know about this tomorrow," she murmured.

"We can stop. There's no rush."

"No, let's get it done."

"Ok."

When the last bulb was planted and the soil smoothed over with the back of the rake, they stood side by side, looking out over the bare earth.

"Well," she said, wiping her forehead with her wrist, leaving a faint streak of brown dirt across her skin. "They're in. Now we just wait."

"Spring," he said softly. "They won't come up until spring."

"I can't wait to see them," she said, leaning her shoulder against his.

He looked over at her, then out at the clean, open garden where the weeds used to be. Standing there with her by his side he realised he was looking forward to it too.

"Me neither," he whispered. "Are you hungry?"

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a grin spreading across her face.

"Starving. Shall we order that takeaway again?"

"No need to. There's a sausage casserole cooking as we speak if you're interested."

She blinked in surprise.

"A sausage casserole?" she said. "George, that sounds wonderful."

"You have a bank card," she said when they were sitting at the kitchen table eating the food.

"Yes."

"Then how come you always handed me a five-pound note, folded precisely the same way, never a card?"

He looked over at her. A shy smile on his face.

"I didn't use the five-pound note just for the newspaper," he said quietly. "It was for those few extra moments I could spend with you in the shop."

She smiled and reached across the table, covering his hand with hers.

"I'm glad you didn't use the card."

The following afternoon they were sitting on the sofa in the living room, their work in the garden all done.

"George?"

"Mm?"

"I haven't seen any photos of your family around the house. Do you have any?"

"I packed them away a long time ago. It was too painful."

She reached across and placed her hand over his, giving it a squeeze.

"Ok, I understand."

He looked at his hand beneath hers. The thought of opening those boxes made his chest tighten, but then he thought about the old radio that had lived in the loft. It now had a new life with her in the shop. Maybe it was time to open up the past.

He let out a slow breath.

"They're up in the loft. In a box."

He looked at her. The young woman who had treated him as a normal human being. The woman who had cared for him and the team that they had become.

"I want to stop hiding from it, Sarah."

"Whenever you're ready," she said softly. "There's no rush."

"If I don't do it now, I might never do it."

"Are you sure, George?"

He stood up, took her hand and they walked upstairs together.

He stood under the loft hatch looking up. She squeezed his hand and with a deep breath, he unlocked the latch and pulled the ladder down, locking it into place.

"I'll hand the box down to you ok."

"Ok, George."

He climbed the steps. She heard him walking across the floorboards above her.

After a few moments he reappeared at the hatch holding a box. She climbed three rungs of the ladder and took the box from him, carrying it down to the floor.

She sat down on the landing carpet. He came back down, closed the ladder, and sat beside her, resting his hands on the lid of the box.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

He took a breath and lifted the lid off. He took out the first photo album and laid it in his lap.

She leaned herself against him.

He opened the first page and the memories came flooding back.

A photo of his parents laughing together in the garden. He remembered taking that photo. Next to that was a photo of Bethany and Grace on a holiday beach gathering shells. Page after page was full of smiles and laughter. And a few pages in was a picture of him at eighteen standing outside the shopfront signage factory on his first day of work.

He stared at his younger face, at the faces of his sisters and his mum and dad and then the dam broke.

He let out a ragged breath, his shoulders shaking as the quiet tears turned into heavy, aching sobs he had held back for twenty years.

She didn't try to stop him, and she didn't offer empty words. She just tightened her arm around his side, holding his weight as he slumped forward, the photo album resting open across his knees.

"Let it out, George," she whispered against his shoulder. "I'm right here."

He stayed there for a long time not wanting to move but to remember the people he'd loved, and the people who had loved him.

Eventually, his sobs slowed. He let out a breath and closed the album.

"They were beautiful, George."

He sniffed. "They were," he said quietly.

"Are you going to put the box back in the loft?"

He looked over at her. "No. They deserve to be down here and not locked away."

He went quiet for a moment then looked over at the three bedroom doors. The doors that had remained closed all this time apart from those occasions when he went in to check the radiators in the winter.

He stood up and walked over to his parents' bedroom door.

She stayed on the landing carpet watching him. She knew this was something he had to do for himself.

He paused by the door and took a deep breath before reaching out for the handle and pushing the door wide open. Crossing the room he opened the curtains that had remained closed all this time, letting the afternoon light in. He took a few moments and looked around the room before heading back out to the landing.

He moved down the hallway to Bethany's room. She was nearly sixteen when her world ended.

He turned the handle and pushed the door wide open. He walked over and opened the curtains. Inside, it was a time capsule to that time back then: a stack of CDs beside a chunky silver stereo, pop band posters papering the walls, and sparkly lip balms and paperbacks sitting on the dresser.

"She was always singing up here," he said softly, wiping a tear from his eye.

He moved on to the final door at the end of the hall--Grace's room.

He opened the door and crossed the room to open the curtains. Piled neatly on her desk were sketchpads filled with pencil drawings, a collection of gel pens, and a plastic container overflowing with colourful hair scrunchies and friendship bracelets she'd been half-way through making.

As he turned around the final wall inside him cracked. A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another, until he was shaking quietly.

He sat down on the bed.

She got up from the carpet and went into the room and sat beside him. She wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed her cheek against his shoulder, holding him steady as he quietly sobbed.

"They would have loved you," George choked out, staring through a blur of tears at the room frozen in time.

"I think they'd just be glad to see you breathing again, George," she whispered, her own voice thick with emotion as she held him tighter.

They sat there for a long time in the afternoon light. When they finally walked back out to the landing, he left all three bedroom doors wide open. He wouldn't be closing them again.

"We did it, Sarah. We opened the doors."

"No, George. You did."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

"Thank you for everything. If it hadn't been for you, I'd still be coming into the shop to buy the newspaper and looking for a quick escape."

"Do you fancy a cup of tea, George?"

He looked at her and smiled. "Sounds like a plan."

They turned around and made their way downstairs.