The apology

A short story by Cressida McLaughlin

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The radio had kept Cass company all morning, blaring out one upbeat song after another, while she scrubbed and polished the small, sunny kitchen that looked out on to her new, currently very overgrown, garden.

Over the last few months she'd found that the busier she was, the less the past crept in, and now, with the tunes alternating between heartbreak and everlasting happiness, the words washed over her, no longer able to hurt. Even when a melodious, yearning song about new love came on, she didn't feel a pang of sadness that the lyrics didn't apply to her.

Her eyes fell on the box in the corner of the living room, the one she'd allowed herself to bring, the last reminders of her relationship with Mark. She'd been feeling nostalgic when she'd brought them with her but here, in her new, tiny cottage, with all its dancing dust motes and potential, she didn't want to hang on to it.

She had seen a charity shop nestled in the row of cafés and boutiques in the village, and it was only a 10-minute walk. She picked up the box, grabbed her new set of keys and walked out into the sunshine and birdsong of the afternoon.

She waved at an older woman on the other side of the road, a terrier at her feet, as she passed small, quaint houses, their front gardens overflowing with spring blooms. The woman waved back. When she reached the tall brick wall that surrounded the country estate, the extravagant house at the centre of the village, Cassie looked up. She slowed, marvelling at the mature apple tree resplendent with pillowy blossom, breathing in its heady, sweet scent. She closed her eyes, and something thumped loudly on the ground a couple of feet from where she stood. Blinking, she saw a chunk of hefty wood, still vibrating where it had landed.