**Love Under the Second-Floor Stairwell**
Margaret filled the kettle and set it on the hob, about to make a cuppa, when it struck her—her granddaughter was coming tomorrow, and she’d promised to bake her favourite apple pie. She checked the fridge: no eggs, barely a splash of milk left. Off to the shops, then, and she might as well grab some bread while she was at it.
Half an hour later, she trudged back with two heavy bags, muttering to herself about always shopping at the worst times and lugging it all home. Climbing the stairs of her ageing council flat in a quiet Essex town, she suddenly stopped—a stranger was fumbling with a key at her late friend Alice’s door.
“Excuse me, what exactly are you doing there?” she called sharply.
The man turned, offering a warm smile. “Trying to get in. I’ve just moved in—renting the place.”
Margaret blinked. Of course. Alice’s daughter had taken her in after her husband passed—didn’t want her living alone. They’d let the flat out, hadn’t they? So here was the new tenant.
Her mind flashed to just days ago, watching from the window as Alice and her daughter packed the car. They’d been inseparable since moving into the same building, both widows, both still young at heart, barely past fifty. But life never asks when it’s convenient.
Alice had waved goodbye, and Margaret waved back, fighting tears. Her friend was off to the other side of London now—who knew when they’d next meet?
The rest of the day passed in routine: the shop, a detour through the park where she’d first met her Arthur at nineteen, waiting for her mate before their leavers’ ball. A tall, bashful bloke had appeared beside her.
“You’re Alice’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Off to the ball tonight.”
And just like that, Arthur came into her life. Steady, kind, dependable. “Don’t chase fireworks, Maggie,” Alice had said. “Arthur’s your safe harbour.” She’d listened. Fifteen years together, two kids. Gone too soon, leaving her heart untouchable since.
Now, climbing the stairs, she noticed the man still struggling with Alice’s tricky lock.
“Let me—it’s fiddly. Needs a jiggle and a shove.” She took the key, nudged it just so, and the door clicked open.
“Cheers. I’m Edward. You must be the neighbour?”
“Margaret. Just Margaret.”
“Pleasure. I’ll have you round for tea once I’m settled. A lone bloke could use good company.”
“Well, I’m baking a pie tomorrow. Pop by if you’ve a sweet tooth.”
“Terrible for me, but count me in,” he grinned.
Next morning, as she and her granddaughter Emily pulled the pie from the oven, the doorbell rang. Emily bolted to answer, shouting, “Gran, it’s for you!”
There stood Edward with red roses. He gave a small bow. “For the lady of the house. Apologies—didn’t realise I’d be greeted by such charming company.”
Margaret flushed, flustered, but waved him in. Over tea, Emily blurted, “D’you have kids?”
“Emily!” Margaret chided.
“It’s alright,” Edward said gently. “No, love. My wife passed three years back. Never had children. Retired now—always fancied Essex. Fresh start, and all that.”
Margaret listened, watching the crinkles at his eyes, unsure why her chest felt so light, so warm, as if she’d known him forever.
*Bloody hell… is this it?* she wondered.
When she looked up, he was gazing at her—soft, knowing, as if to say, *I feel it too.*
They lingered in that moment.
Luckily, Emily missed it, already begging another slice.
“I’d eat this every day,” Edward said, and that flutter returned.
Their walks began—short at first, then longer. They talked books, family, dreams unfinished and those still ahead.
One evening, Edward admitted, “Margaret, you feel like home. Even when you’re here, I miss you. I want always to be near you.”
He proposed.
Nervous, she invited her grown kids over. They were wary—till Emily declared, “He’s the best neighbour! Makes waffles and paper planes!”
They relented. Their mum glowed. Edward held her hand like he’d never let go.
So love found Margaret. Not at twenty. Not at thirty. When she least expected. Perhaps that’s why it felt so real.
Because love, like happiness, comes quietly. Up the stairs. Waiting at the door.
