The years passed quietly, filled with routine.
Somewhere in the rhythm of work, day after day, she appeared.
Not suddenly. Not like in stories.
She was someone I'd known for years, a familiar figure at markets, at festivals, at the edge of fields.
When I was finally told that it was time to marry, her name was the one whispered to me.
And so it went.
At first, I wasn't sure.
Marriage felt like another duty, another weight to carry. Love—did I even understand it?
The girl by the river had disappeared long ago, and since then, affection had always been fleeting, out of reach.
But she… she was kind.
Her laughter filled the house like sunlight through thin curtains—soft, hesitant at first, then steady. She cooked more than meals; she filled the silence between my parents and me with her voice. The walls, once heavy and unwelcoming, felt warmer with her inside them.
And she was patient with me.
A young man who often stared at the horizon, who sighed when no one was watching, who carved wooden birds late at night as if trying to escape reality.
She never laughed at it. She didn't encourage it either—but she saw me. And that was something I hadn't thought possible.
We were not rich.
Our life connected to soil, to seasons, to debts that never truly lifted. But there were small joys: mornings when she handed me tea with tired eyes but still smiled; evenings when she sat beside me, unraveling thread as I carved.
Once, she looked at one of my finished figures, a small sparrow. She traced its wings with her fingertip and whispered, "You should've been a craftsman."
I laughed dryly then, muttering that it was a waste of dreams.
But those words never left me. Not because I believed them, but for a moment, I wondered… if she did.
We built a life together.
Markets, festivals, small savings, simple meals. Days of exhaustion that ended with us shoulder to shoulder on the porch, watching fireflies.
And for a time—for many years—it was enough. More than enough.
The restless fire in me quieted. The horizon faded in importance. I wasn't free, no… but I wasn't alone.
That distinction made the weight easier to carry.
Even now, as these old lungs struggle for air, I remember her touch most clearly. Not from moments of passion, but from the everyday: her hand brushing mine as we worked, her fingers catching my sleeve when I stepped away, her palm pressing against my back when the days felt too heavy.
It was warmth. Nothing more, nothing less.
But it meant everything to me.
Yet, hidden within this warmth was something I only understood much later.
Love strengthens, yes. But love can also tie you down.
I began to let go of my dreams of the horizon—not from bitterness, but from acceptance. And still… somewhere deep inside, a whisper remained.
A whisper of what if?
What if I had gone? What if she had come with me? What if sacrifice could have looked different?
I never voiced these thoughts, because love isn't built only on honesty—it also includes silence.
And perhaps, in that silence, were the first small cracks that later widened into regrets.
But not then.
Not in those early years.
Back then, her presence softened every shadow.
Back then, her laughter turned the silence of my home into something close to music.
She was not my escape.
She was my anchor.
And anchors, even when they hold you down, also keep you safe.