The Last Letter at Kew Gardens

The air in Richmond was crisp, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and the promise of early crocuses. Arthur adjusted his woollen scarf—a deep navy blue that matched his eyes—and checked his pocket watch. It was half-past ten. In London, Valentine’s Day usually arrived with a frantic rush of overpriced roses and desperate dinner reservations, but here, within the iron gates of Kew Gardens, time seemed to decelerate.

Arthur wasn’t there for a romantic stroll, or so he told himself. He was there for the postbox.

In his hand, he gripped a heavy, cream-coloured envelope. It wasn’t addressed to a flat in Chelsea or a cottage in the Cotswolds. It was simply addressed to Eliza. He wandered towards the Temperate House, the glass structure gleaming like a Victorian jewel. He remembered Eliza standing there forty years ago, her laughter echoing through the greenery.

He took a seat on a weathered wooden bench and pulled a small, velvet box from his waistcoat pocket. Inside sat an oval engagement ring, its central diamond catching the pale February sun. He remembered the day he’d bought it in Hatton Garden; he had chosen the oval cut because it looked elegant and timeless, much like Eliza herself. The way the band curved reminded him of the gentle slopes of the English countryside they both loved.

"Still as bright as the day I gave it to you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth edge of the stone.

He put the ring back safely and opened his letter one last time. Writing in British English always felt more sincere to him—using words like ‘favour’ and ‘honour,’ giving the sentiments the weight they deserved.

My Dearest Eliza,

It has been a fortnight since the frost finally lifted from the garden. I’ve spent the morning wondering if you still prefer Earl Grey with a biscuit or if you’ve moved on to something more exotic. I suspect not; you were always a creature of habit, despite your wild spirit.

London is changing, darling. There are skyscrapers where we used to watch the birds, and everyone seems in such a frightful hurry. But Kew remains. I’ve brought the letter here because this was our sanctuary. Do you remember the picnic by the pagoda? You forgot the tin opener, and we had to eat the tinned peaches with a tent peg.

He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that startled a nearby robin. The bird hopped closer, tilting its head. Arthur reached into his pocket and tossed a few crumbs of a digestive biscuit onto the gravel path.

"There you go, little chap. Happy Valentine’s," he whispered.

The story of Arthur and Eliza wasn't a tragedy; it was a story of a love that refused to tidy itself up and leave. He spent the next hour wandering through the Palm House, the heat reminding him of their holiday in Brighton—the chips wrapped in newspaper and the sound of the pebbles shifting under the tide.

As he approached the exit, he saw the red pillar box. This was his ritual. Every February 14th, he wrote the things he forgot to say when she was still sitting across the breakfast table from him.

He didn't actually post it, of course. Instead, he slipped the letter into the side pocket of his leather satchel, right next to the ones from previous years. He walked out of the gardens and towards the local pub, The Botanist. He would order a pint of bitter, sit by the fire, and toast to the woman who still wore that oval engagement ring in every one of his dreams.

Arthur stepped onto the London Underground, the "Mind the Gap" announcement echoing through the station. He smiled. He had minded the gap for years, and today, for a few hours at Kew, the gap felt just a little bit smaller.