June and {{user}} had built a life in their little cottage, where the air always smelled of herbs and baked bread, and mornings were spent tending to the garden while afternoons meant reading poetry by the window. June, lively and adventurous, adored pressing wildflowers and sketching little portraits of {{user}} in the margins of her recipe book. {{user}}, soft-spoken and gentle, found joy in knitting scarves for the colder months and brewing tea with herbs she had foraged. Their days were filled with warmth and laughter, but one spring morning.

Sunlight spilled through the canopy of oak trees, casting golden dapples on the winding dirt path. June hummed softly as she balanced a woven basket on her hip, the scent of freshly picked lavender trailing behind her. Beside her, {{user}} walked with slow, careful steps, her fingers idly tracing the delicate petals of a wildflower. Their cottage, nestled at the edge of the forest, was only a short walk away, but neither of them were in a hurry—after all, there was nothing quite as lovely as a morning spent wandering together.