Margaret had lived alone for ten years. Ten years since Harold's last breath rattled from his chest in the hospice bed, leaving her house echoing with the absence of his chuckle, his way of whistling while making tea, his warm hand reaching for hers. She had filled those years with small rituals, tending the roses, walking, volunteering, and talking to her cat, Jasper, a grizzly ginger Tom with a crooked ear. Jasper was her confidant, her warm weight at the end of the bed.

'You're all I've got left, old boy,' she would murmur, scratching his chin.

One damp autumn morning she noticed a deafening silence. The cushion by the window sat empty. No Jasper. She searched the house calling his name, voice rising with each room. 'Jasper? Supper time.' Nothing but the ticking clock.

Pulling on her coat she stepped into the drizzle, the street smelled of wet leaves. Her neighbours were used to seeing her in the garden with Jasper by her side, but now she was bent low, peering under hedges, calling into shadows, invading other gardens. Alone.

She searched all day and by the time she reached the park, twilight had smudged the sky purple. She stopped at the edge of the duck pond, heart thudding. What if he'd wandered onto the road, or drowned? What if she never saw him again? The panic was sharp, surprising, and deep.'

'Excuse me,' a voice said. 'Are you all right?'

She turned. A man stood with an umbrella tilted against the drizzle. He was tall, his hair silver, his coat neatly buttoned. There was concern in his eyes, not pity, or worse, danger.

'I've lost my cat,' she said, the words catching in her throat. 'He's old, doesn't usually wander.'

'Let me help,' the man offered. 'What's his name?'

'Jasper.'

As they walked the winding paths, she felt strange, her grief for Harold suddenly brushing shoulders with this stranger's kindness. After half an hour her voice had grown hoarse as she slumped onto a damp bench.

'I'm sorry, please don't waste your evening on me.'

He smiled. 'I was only walking to clear my head, get some air, it's better with company. I'm Peter.'

She hesitated. 'Margaret.'

They shook hands. His palm was warm despite the chill.

For several days she searched for Jasper with no luck, but Peter appeared more often than mere coincidence alongside her, asking if there had been any sightings. Sometimes he carried a torch, sweeping the beams under bushes. Sometimes he brought a packet of cat treats.

Margaret began to expect him, her heart leaping when she saw his coat in the distance.

One evening, she confessed. 'It's not only Jasper I miss, I miss Harold, my husband. He's been gone ten years, but tonight, looking for the cat, I felt it fresh all over again.'

Peter nodded. His voice was quiet. 'I lost my wife eight years ago. Cancer. The house still feels too big.' The air between them changed, not heavy but shared, a silence with room for both their losses. They walked on in step.

A week later, Margaret heard a faint mewling from Harold's old shed. Why on earth hadn't she looked there? She flung the door open, and Jasper blinked at her, thin but alive, tail twitching indignantly. She laughed and sobbed at once, scooping him into her arms. That evening she phoned Peter, her fingers trembling.

'I found him! Would you...like to meet him?'

Peter arrived with a tin of salmon. Jasper, ever true to form, hissed and retreated under the sofa. Margaret laughed until she cried, realising how long it had been since laughter came easily to her life.

After that, Peter visited often, at first it was for Jasper, bringing toys, asking after his health, but soon they were sharing pots of tea, talking about books they'd loved, memories of their spouses, the ache of birthdays passed alone. Slowly, Margaret noticed the way Peter's hand lingered over hers when passing the sugar bowl, the warmth in his gaze when she smiled.

One evening, washing dishes side by side, Margaret felt something shift. The kitchen light gleamed on the window, rain streaked the glass, the air was electric. Peter reached to dry a plate, their fingers brushing. The moment hung between them, tender and terrifying.

'I wasn't expecting...' she began, but her voice broke.'

Neither was I,' Peter said softly. 'But maybe we're allowed.'

Margaret thought of Harold then, with gratitude. He had filled her life with love, now, perhaps, she was being offered love again, different but no less real. She imagined Harold smiling at her foolishness for thinking love had an age limit.

She reached for Peter's hand, steady this time. His fingers curled around hers as Jasper yowled from the doorway as if to remind them who had started it all.

Margaret laughed. 'You really are a matchmaker, old boy.'

Peter squeezed her hand, and for the first time in ten years, the house didn't feel quite so empty.