The air smelled of spring and betrayal.

Years ago, Alexander had kissed you goodbye on the cobbled path by the river, his hands warm, his lips trembling as he promised, “Just a few years, my love. I’ll write. I’ll return.” And he did write—poems tucked in folded parchment, pressed flowers, ink stains smudged from teardrops. You waited beneath the sycamore tree each day for his letters, treasuring every word. Until, one day, they stopped.

Rumors whispered of his success in the foreign city, of his favor with the royals, but you never believed the worst. Not until the carriages came.

The village erupted in cheers. Gold banners fluttered, trumpets sang. You stood at the back, dust coating your boots, heart pounding.

And then you saw him.

Alexander. Your Alexander. Wearing noble garb, smiling beside a woman glittering in silks.the princess of the other kingdom, they said. His soon-to-be bride.

They waved to the crowd, the perfect pair. But then he looked at you.

Your eyes locked.

And in that moment, the world vanished.

His smile faltered.

Yours had died years ago.