Hello, I’m Brian, 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness.

Since then, I’ve lived alone in silence. My children are married and settled in their own lives. They stop by briefly once a month—just long enough to drop off some money and my medications—then leave again.

It’s not their fault. They have their own lives to live, and I understand that.
But on rainy afternoons, as I lie on the couch listening to the steady tapping of raindrops on the tin roof, I feel nothing but quiet emptiness.

Last year, while browsing through Facebook, I came across Alice—my high school crush.
I loved her back then. She had this beautiful, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and a radiant smile that could light up any classroom.

But while I was buried in my university entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a man from southern India—ten years older than her.
And just like that, she was gone.
We lost touch for decades.

Forty years later, we reconnected.
Her husband had passed away five years earlier, leaving her a widow.
She now lived with her younger son, who worked in another city and rarely came home.

It started with a simple “hello.”
Then came phone calls.
Soon, we were meeting for coffee.
Every few days, I’d ride my scooter to her home, bringing a small basket of fruit, candy, and joint pain pills.

One day, I joked, “What if we two old souls got married? Wouldn’t that make the loneliness easier?”

I expected a laugh.
But when I saw her eyes well up with tears, I quickly stammered, “I was only joking…”

She nodded gently. Then smiled.

And just like that, I married my first love—at 61.

I wore a dark maroon sherwani. She wore a cream silk saree, her hair neatly styled with a tiny pearl pin tucked in.
Friends and neighbors gathered to celebrate.
Everyone said, “You two look like young lovers again.”

And honestly, I felt like one.
That night, I cleaned up the last of the dishes around 10 p.m.
I warmed her some milk, locked the front gate, and turned off the porch lights.

It was our wedding night—something I never imagined would happen again in my old age.

But as I began unbuttoning her blouse, I froze.

Her back, shoulders, and arms were covered in bruises and scars, like a tattered map of pain.
I stood still, heart aching.

Quickly, she pulled a blanket around herself, eyes wide with fear.

“T-That’s not my name,” I whispered. “What happened, Alice?”

She turned toward me, her voice choked.

“He used to be violent,” she said quietly. “He yelled, and he hit me. I never told anyone…”

I sat beside her, tears brimming in my eyes. My heart broke for her.
All those years, she lived in silence—afraid, humiliated, and alone.

I reached out, took her hand, and placed it gently over my chest.

“You’re safe now,” I said softly. “No one will ever hurt you again—not while I’m here. The only thing that might hurt is how much I love you.”

Her tears fell silently as I held her close.

She was so frail. Her spine curved, her bones fragile.
This woman had survived a lifetime of pain in quiet.

Our wedding night wasn’t like most couples’.
We didn’t make love.
We lay side by side, listening to the wind rustling through the trees and the crickets chirping in the courtyard.

I kissed her forehead and brushed her hair from her face.

She reached up, touched my cheek, and whispered, “Thank you… for reminding me that someone still cares.”

I smiled. Because at 61, I’ve learned that true happiness doesn’t come from youth or money or passion.
It comes from a hand to hold.
A shoulder to lean on.
Someone to sit beside you through the night, just feeling your presence.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
How many days I have left?

One thing is certain: I will spend every remaining moment making up for what she lost.
I will treasure her.
Protect her.
Make sure she never feels afraid again.

Because this wedding night—after 50 years of waiting, missed chances, and longing—
It is the greatest gift life has ever given me.