The morning came quietly, as if the forest itself didn't want to wake me. A pale mist curled between the trees, soft and slow, like breath that didn't want to let go. I sat where the light first kissed the earth, watching it creep across the moss and ferns, gilding everything it touched with a gentle gold. My fingers curled into the damp hem of my dress. I couldn't tell if it was dew or tears that clung to the fabric.
She hadn't returned.
And I knew, deep down, she wouldn't.
The warmth of the sun filtered through the canopy, but it couldn't reach the cold that had settled inside me. I looked at the place where she'd stood the night before—hair glowing like firelight, eyes filled with so many unsaid things. She'd whispered my name as if it hurt to say. And then she vanished into the pines.
I should've run after her.
I should've held on.
But all I'd done was whisper goodbye.
Now the silence echoed louder than any scream.
The Firelight Tree still stood, tall and ancient, its bark streaked with silver like the threads of time itself. Its leaves shimmered faintly, catching the sun in a way that reminded me of her laughter. The air around it pulsed with memories—hers, mine, ours. A thousand moments folded into the hush between birdsong and breeze.
I stepped closer, pressing my hand to its trunk. The bark was warm beneath my fingers.
"I don't want to let go," I whispered. "But I think you already did."
The wind stirred. Just enough to make the leaves murmur.
Just enough to feel like her voice.
I closed my eyes.
"I thought we had more time." My voice cracked. "I thought... maybe love was enough."
But love couldn't stop her from fading. Couldn't hold her here when magic had other plans.
When I opened my eyes, a single red leaf had fallen to the ground. It landed softly on the moss near my foot, bright and out of season. I bent and picked it up, twirling the stem between my fingers. Red. Like the ribbon she always wore in her hair. Like the blush that had risen in her cheeks the first time I told her she was beautiful.
The first time she believed it.
The first time I did too.
I walked with the leaf between my hands, retracing our path through the forest. The hollow stone. The glade that bloomed at night. The river where she taught me to listen. It was all still here. But it wasn't. Not without her.
Everywhere I looked, I saw pieces of her: the ripple in the water, the flutter of wings, the sigh of the trees. She had stitched herself into the forest. Into me.
I didn't know where I was going until I found myself standing before the cottage—our cottage. Or the one that could've been. Its ivy-draped walls, its little wooden door. Dust clung to the windowpanes. No fire in the hearth. No humming from the kitchen. Only quiet.
I stepped inside.
Everything was as we left it. The blanket folded neatly on the chair. The book with her pressed flowers still tucked inside. I ran my fingers along the edge of the table and found her handwriting scratched faintly in the wood: We were here.
A lump rose in my throat. I sat down in the chair she once curled in, knees tucked to her chest, smile hidden behind a cup of tea.
And I cried.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind that echoed through trees. Just a quiet, aching grief that slipped down my cheeks and into my lap.
"I don't know how to do this without you," I whispered into the silence.
The red leaf lay on the table now, a tiny flame of memory.
And that's when I knew what I had to do.
I gathered what I could—her letters, her sketches, the locket she once gave me with nothing inside because, she said, "your heart will fill it when it's ready." I wrapped them carefully in soft cloth and tied them with twine. Then I walked, one last time, to the edge of the glade.
The Wish Tree stood in the center, its bark pale and smooth, its branches stretched toward the sky like open arms. So many had come here to ask for something. I came not to wish—but to give back.
I placed the bundle at its base. My offering.
"My heart will always be half yours," I said.
And then, softly, like breath slipping between ribs, I said it.
"Goodbye."
The air changed.
A soft wind danced through the leaves. The locket glowed, faintly. Just for a second.
Then the forest stilled again.
And I turned away.
I walked home beneath a sky dusted with pink and gold. Each step was slow, but sure. The pain was still there, curled like a thorn in my chest. But something else had settled too.
A sweetness.
Not because she was gone.
But because she had been here.
Because I had loved her.
Because she had loved me.
When I reached the hill above the village, I stopped. The rooftops shimmered in the sunset, and the river wound its way like silver ribbon through the trees.
She had always said this view looked like forever.
And now it did.