A recipe of love

Cold days

A few weeks passed in quiet routine, but Margaret found herself drawn to the idea of visiting Mark's grave. It had been some time since she had last spoken to him, though she still felt his presence in the house, a faint echo of the harmony they had once shared. So, on a crisp afternoon, she gathered a small bouquet of roses and lavender and set off toward the cemetery.

The walk there was solemn, the autumn air cool but not unkind. The leaves on the trees were beginning to turn golden, and the earth beneath her feet crunched softly with each step. Upon reaching Mark's resting place, Margaret felt the familiar pang of sadness. The stone marker stood weathered by time, yet still held his name, as though the memory of him had etched itself into the earth.

Margaret knelt, placing the flowers gently at the base of the headstone. For a moment, she simply stared at the engraving, tracing the letters with her eyes: *Mark Sinclair, beloved husband*. The wind rustled through the nearby trees, and Margaret allowed herself a soft sigh.

"I have missed you," she whispered, her voice breaking the stillness. "It has been some time since I last visited, but I thought today might be a good day to talk."

She settled herself on the ground, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she looked up at the headstone, as if waiting for a response. Of course, none came.

"Mr. Samuel, the man who used to manage the bakery, has left us. Illness has taken him away, and it feels quite strange without his presence. But we have a new baker now-Nathaniel. He is young, perhaps too young to bear such responsibility, but he is kind and capable."

Margaret paused, a small smile tugging at her lips as she thought of the recent days in the kitchen with Nathaniel. "You always said I should take up a hobby, did you not? Well, I have finally heeded your advice. Nathaniel has been teaching me to bake. Can you imagine?" She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Me, of all people, in a kitchen, trying my hand at bread and pastries."

The sound of her own laughter felt odd in the cemetery, almost out of place, but it lightened her heart, if only for a moment. She could picture Mark's warm, approving smile, hear his teasing voice.

"I can almost hear you now," she said softly, her laughter fading into the breeze. "You would have been most amused, watching me covered in flour, making a grand mess of things."

Her smile faded as the weight of reality pressed in. She stared at the stone, feeling the years stretch between them. A deep sadness settled in her chest.

"I wish..." she started, her voice faltering. "I wish I had loved you as you deserved, Mark. The way you ought to have been loved."

The admission hung in the air, heavier than anything she had ever spoken aloud. Margaret swallowed, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"I was always so concerned with propriety," she whispered. "With doing what was expected of me. I was the dutiful wife, the proper lady, yet I could never give you the love you deserved. Not as fully as I ought to have."

Her fingers clenched the fabric of her dress as the words spilled forth. "I miss your warmth, Mark. You brought peace to our home. You never asked for anything save my happiness, and yet, I never truly gave you my heart."

Margaret remained there, sitting in silence, letting the wind carry her words wherever they might land. She knew Mark was gone, but here, at his grave, she felt closest to him-this was the only place she could say the words she had never dared speak.

After a long while, she rose, brushing the dirt from her skirt. She pressed a hand to the headstone one last time, her fingers lingering against the cold stone as if to say a final goodbye.