Seasons of Silence
The seasons turned, slow and steady. Spring brought the scent of new blossoms; summer, the warm winds. Autumn dropped golden leaves around her feet like blessings. Winter stiffened the ground, but her resolve remained soft.
Each week, she visited the tree. Sometimes she brought a book. Sometimes she brought a letter she wrote but never mailed filled with stories, questions, and confessions. She placed them in a glass jar she buried beneath the tree.
People around her began to whisper. "Still waiting?" they asked. "He's probably moved on."
She didn't answer them. Not with words. Her silence was her protest.
It wasn't just loyalty. It was love. And love, real love, doesn't count the days or demand signs. It believes.
Still, when the fourth year passed, and then the fifth, doubt crept in like a quiet fog. But every time she sat beneath that tree, she could still feel him like a breeze brushing the back of her neck.