Perhaps it was how it had to be:
The landscape reflected his soul, deep in sorrow,
For mourning was now the only feeling left…
Yet, through the clouds,
A sun ray could be seen,
Reflected in the calm water of the lake.
He thought how deep that water was,
Time would tell if he would find again
The warmth of a happy summer.
” But in the end we talked all night. Every story has a time to be told, I convinced her. Otherwise you’ll be forever a prisoner to the secret inside you.” ~ Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
She longed to see him, to hold him as she used to. But he was no longer there, so she looked in other places. No-one can disappear forever, without trace… She tried to convince herself.
He must be somewhere, perhaps still looking after me, perhaps watching our place, smiling at me? Days after days she waited, searching, listening, expecting a sound, his footsteps, his voice. His voice: what would she have given to hear his voice?
One day she decided to go to the little town, the place of his childhood. It was a long journey. She had prepared herself, before entering the small cemetery. All soldiers there. Once they had visited, together, in the heart of an icy winter. She went to the grave.
Alone she stood. The grey stone held her gaze.