Never Truly Forgotten Every day, Prohor commutes from his job in London: a ride on the Tube, then the bus, before finally arriving home. The journey lasts over an hour each way. His car spends more time parked than on the road, thanks to London’s notorious rush hour traffic—he finds it easier and faster by public transport. Two years ago, his family life changed drastically; he and his wife quietly divorced. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mum. There were no dramas—Prohor was never one for arguments. He’d noticed his wife had changed over the years, grown restless, and often left late, claiming she was meeting friends. When he asked, —Why are you always out so late? Most wives are at home by this hour. —None of your business. Those ‘normal’ wives—just hens. I’m different: clever, social, and need more than just home. Besides, I’m not a farm girl like you. —So why did you marry the farm boy? —Picked the lesser of two evils, she’d retort before shutting down the conversation. Soon after, she filed for divorce and moved Prohor out of the flat; he’s since got used to renting and isn’t ready for marriage again, though he keeps looking. On the Tube, like most, he doesn’t waste his travel time—scrolls through social media, reads news, jokes, and watches clips. Scrolling absentmindedly, one image jolts him—it’s an ad: Folk Herbalist Mary, Natural Remedies He recognises the face immediately—his first love from school: unrequited, unforgettable. He remembers her well, that strange but beautiful girl from his class. Barely making his stop, he rushes home on foot, skipping the bus just to clear his head. Inside, he forgets his dinner and sits in the corridor, staring at his phone, jotting down the number in the ad before his device demands a charge. While his phone powers up, memories flood back: Mary was always different from their first day in Year 1. Quiet, modest, with her school dress a little below the knee—unlike the other girls. Their small village outside Oxford was a place where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew much about Mary. She lived with her grandparents in a unique house by the woods—like something out of a fairytale. He fell for her—childishly, yet to him, seriously. She had a handmade rucksack with beautiful embroidery, and rather than the usual “hiya”, she’d always greet people with: “Good health to you.” She was like a character from an old English legend—never rowdy, always polite. One day Mary missed school, and the kids went to check on her. Outside the village, they saw her home—and a crowd: her grandmother’s funeral. Mary in her headscarf, wiping her tears, her grandfather silent but present. After the burial, the children were even invited in for the wake. That memory stuck—his first funeral. Mary returned to school soon after. Time passed, the girls matured, took to makeup and fashion battles. Only Mary remained as dignified and natural as ever, her cheeks rosy without a hint of blush. The boys started courting; Prohor tried his luck with Mary. She didn’t respond at first, but at the end of Year 9, he managed: —Can I walk you home after school? She replied, quietly, privately, —I’m promised, Prohor. It’s tradition in our family. He was confused—what tradition? Later he learned her grandparents were Old Believers, her parents having died young, leaving her their legacy. Mary excelled at school, wore no jewellery, kept to herself despite the others’ gossip. She blossomed every year, by Year 10 there was no denying her beauty. After graduation, classmates scattered. Prohor moved to London for university. He heard Mary married her betrothed and moved to a remote village, living a simple rural life—herding cows, working the land, raising a son. None of their classmates saw her again. “So that’s what Mary does now,” Prohor muses, “Herbalist… Looks even lovelier than before.” Sleep eludes him, morning comes and the routine repeats—work, but the past and beautiful Mary won’t let go. First love never fades, always stirs the heart. After several days in a daze, he finally messages her: —Hello, Mary! —Good health, she replies, unchanged as ever. “What concerns you?” —Mary, it’s Prohor, your old classmate. Remember we shared a desk? Saw you online—had to write. —Of course, Prohor, the brightest lad in our class. —This is your number, can I ring you? he asks. —Of course, she replies. After work, he calls; stories and memories exchanged. Where do you live? What’s life like? —I’m still in the old family home by the woods, she tells him. Came back after my husband died—a bear attack in the forest… Grandfather’s gone too. —Sorry, I had no idea… —It’s alright, Prohor, it was long ago. Life goes on. You’re just calling for a chat, or do you need some herbs? I sometimes advise. —Just wanted to say hello. No herbal remedies needed, just saw you and all the memories came flooding back. Miss the old village—my mother’s gone now. They reminisce and say goodbye. But a week later, restless, Prohor calls again: —Hi, Mary. —Good health, Prohor. Missing someone or fallen ill? —Just missing you, Mary—please don’t be cross, but could I visit you? —Come if you like, she says, unexpectedly. Whenever you get the chance. —My holiday’s next week, he beams. —Good, you know the address. He spends the week preparing, choosing gifts for Mary—wondering what she’s like now. At last, he drives from London to his old village—six hours, not a hardship, he loves long drives. Arriving, he’s shocked at the changes. New homes, shops, even the local factory thriving, the high street buzzing. —Wow, thought our village, like so many others, must’ve faded away. But it’s thriving, he says aloud. —It’s a proper town now, replies a passing pensioner with pride. Been granted borough status for ages. You haven’t been back for years, have you? —Years and years, says Prohor. —Our mayor’s a good man—really cares about the place, so it’s grown and blossomed. Mary waits for Prohor at the old house when he calls to say he’s arrived. As his car turns in, Mary’s heart races. No one ever knew how she’d loved Prohor since school—a secret she’d have carried forever had he not reappeared. Their reunion is joyful. Sitting for hours in the gazebo, the old house your typical English cottage—aged, yet welcoming. —Mary, I’ve come on business, he says, with a serious look. —I’m listening, she answers a bit nervously. —I’ve loved you all these years, surely you can’t still turn me away? Mary leaps up, throws her arms around him. —Prohor, I’ve always loved you, too—since I was a girl. Prohor spends his holiday with Mary, and as he leaves, he promises, —I’ll sort things at work, switch to remote, and come back for good. I’m not going anywhere else—I was born here, and here I’ll make myself useful.

Forgetting Completely Was Impossible

Every day, Alfred took the underground from work to home, then caught the bus, and eventually found himself at his cottage. The journey there and back took over an hour. His car spent more time idle than in use, for in London the rush hours were so ghastly that the tube was always the quicker option.

Nearly two years had passed since his married life had changed; he and his wife had separated. Their daughter, seventeen at the time, stayed with her mother. The parting had been quiet and civil, as Alfred was never one for confrontation. Hed long noticed how his wife had changed, and not for the better. She was nervous for no reason, often absent, sometimes returning late and always with a vague story about meeting a friend.

One day, Alfred asked:

Where do you wander off to so late? Proper wives are home by now.

She replied, Thats none of your business. Those proper wives are hens. Im different clever and sociable. Home feels stifling. And Im not some farmers wife, like you. Born a country boy, forever one.

Why marry a farmer then?

I picked the lesser of two evils, she retorted, and left it at that.

Afterwards, she filed for divorce and sent Alfred packing from their flat. Renting was now his routine. He was used to it and, for now, had no plans to remarry, though the thought lingered.

Alfred rode the tube, like everyone else, making good use of his time by scrolling through his mobile perusing the days headlines, chuckling at jokes, watching snippets of videos. Flicking on, he was suddenly struck by a familiar face and paused. He peered at the picture, reading the notice.

Herbal Remedies by Martha. Folk Healer.

From his mobile screen looked out his first love. A love unreturned, even hopeless, but unforgettable. He recalled Martha well that odd yet pretty girl from his year at school.

He almost missed his stop, jumped off the train, emerged onto the street, and forewent the bus, choosing instead to walk home briskly. On autopilot, he entered his flat, tossed his coat aside, and sat right there on the low hall stool, never switching the light on just staring at the phones screen. Later, he leapt up and scribbled down the number from the ad before his phone lost power and needed charging.

Plugging it in, he tried to eat supper, but had little appetite. Picking at his plate, he eventually slumped onto the sitting room sofa, lost in memories.

From the very first year, Martha was different: a gentle, shy girl with a thick, long braid, her school uniform hanging a bit longer than the others did. In their small English village, everyone knew everyone except Martha. She lived with her grandparents in an old timber house by the woods, carved window frames and all, like something out of a fairy tale.

Alfred called Alfie back then had fallen for her from the moment he saw her, in that childish way, but what felt to him quite serious. Everything about her was peculiar. Outside, she always wore a headscarf, and carried a handy little satchel, decorated with embroidery, homemade as he later discovered.

Instead of saying Hi, shed greet others with Good health to you. She felt plucked from a tale of old. Never did she run or shout during break times; always courteous and calm.

One day, Martha was absent from school. Alfred joined some classmates in visiting her to see if she was ill. They walked past the edge of the village, turned down the lane, and found her enchanting house. It seemed they had wandered into a storybook.

Oh look, theres a crowd said lively Sarah.

As they neared, it became clear: it was a funeral. Marthas grandmother had passed away. Martha stood in her scarf, dabbing tears, while her grandfather stared darkly ahead. The procession moved to the churchyard, and the children were welcomed into the house for the wake.

It all stuck with Alfie, as it was his first funeral. Martha returned to school two days later. Time went by; the girls blossomed into beauties, spent hours on make-up and competed over their fashionable clothes. Only Martha carried herself with a straight back, never painted her face, her cheeks always naturally rosy and lovely.

The boys began courting the girls, and so did Alfie, hoping to win Marthas favour. At first, she paid him no mind, but towards the end of term, he ventured:

Shall I walk you home after school?

Martha looked at him seriously, speaking softly so none could hear:

Im promised, Alfie. Its our way.

Alfie was disappointed but didnt grasp her meaning. Later, he learned her grandparents were Old Believers; her parents had died long ago, leaving Martha in their care.

Martha excelled at school; no surprise there. She wore no jewellery like the others. The girls whispered and gossiped, but Martha never paid heed and always behaved with dignity.

Each year she grew more radiant, and by the time they reached the final year, she was exquisite the boys admired her quietly, never teasing or mocking.

After graduation, classmates dispersed all over. Alfred moved to London for university. All he knew was Martha had married, as arranged. He seldom returned for holidays, spending summers away on work placements.

Martha married the lad shed been promised to and moved to a far-off hamlet. Her life was the same as many: milking cows, cutting hay, minding the home, raising a son. No one from their year saw her again.

So this is Marthas calling, Alfred mused on his sofa, Herbs and healing. Shes even lovelier now.

He barely slept. The next morning, with sunrise, he dressed, ate, and left for work. The past wouldnt let him be Marthas striking image haunted him.

Yes, first love stirs the heart. It truly never fades, he thought.

First love never leaves, always stirs the heart.

He existed in a haze for days, then wrote her a message:

Hello, Martha.

Good health to you, came the reply, just as always. Is there something troubling you?

Martha, its Alfred your schoolmate. We sat together, remember? I saw your ad online and had to write.

I remember you, Alfred. You always were the best in class.

Martha, you posted your number may I ring you? he asked quietly.

Of course. Call anytime, she answered.

That evening after work, he phoned. They chatted, exchanging stories of where life had taken them.

I live in London and work here, he said simply. But tell me about yourself, Martha. Is your family large? Was your husband good to you? Where are you now?

Im back in my old home the one near the woods. After my husband died It was a bear in the forest. Grandads gone too, long ago.

Im so sorry, Martha I didnt know

Its all right, Alfred. It was long ago; Im at peace with it now. Life happens, and we fall out of touch. But did you call for advice on herbs, or just for a chat? I do like to help sometimes

Just wanted to talk. No herbs needed I saw you and the memories came flooding back. I miss our village. Have not visited in ages, mums been gone for years.

They reminisced, said their goodbyes, and silence settled once more. Home. Work. But after a week, Alfred grew restless and called Martha again.

Hello, Martha.

Good health, Alfred. Whats the matter, missing me, or feeling unwell?

Missing you, Martha. And please, dont be angry but might I come visit? May I? he asked softly, hope pounding in his chest.

Come along, she replied unexpectedly. Visit whenever you wish.

My holiday begins in a week! he said, pleased beyond measure.

Splendid, you know the way, she replied, and he felt her smile.

Alfred spent that week preparing, buying small gifts for Martha, worrying over what might suit her, uncertain if shed changed or remained the same. Soon, he was driving from London back to the land of his youth six hours at the wheel, but he relished the trip.

The village appeared suddenly as he turned off the main road, and what a transformation! New homes, factories still running, the high street boasting supermarkets and cafés. He stopped by the local shop to take it in.

Blimey, I thought this place had declined like all the others, but its blossomed, he said aloud, looking around.

Were not a village anymore but a proper town, said a passing gentleman with pride. Weve held that status for some time, my friend you mustve been away quite a while?

A long time, sir. A very long time, Alfred answered.

Our towns got a splendid mayor truly cares, so the place thrives, the old man smiled.

Martha awaited Alfred in her garden, her heart beating like a drum as she watched his car turn in. No one had ever guessed that Martha had quietly adored Alfred since schooldays. Her secret would have died with her, if hed never returned.

Their reunion was joyful. They sat long in the arbour, Marthas old timber house aged but still welcoming and warm.

Martha, Alfred began, Ive come here with purpose. She looked at him, a little afraid.

Im listening, what is it? she asked tensely.

Ive loved you all my life dont you see? Wont you answer my love now? he said, voice full of conviction.

Martha jumped up, threw her arms about his neck.

Alfie, Alfred, Ive loved you since I was little too.

Alfred spent his holiday with Martha, and as he left, he promised:

Ill sort my job, work from here if I can and return. I wont leave again. Born here, and here Ill stay, he laughed.

And so, reflecting now, one knows: first love truly never vanishes. It lingers in the quiet heart forever.