The days blurred together like mist rolling over a quiet field. Morning bled into evening, evening into night, and still she waited. The small flame of her bedside candle had become her most faithful companion — burning low into waxy pools as she lingered by the window, hoping each sound of carriage wheels upon the lane might herald a letter, a word, a sign.
At first, his replies had been swift. Pages brimming with warmth, filled with details of his days and assurances of his devotion. Each letter had been like a balm, stitching together the miles between them with the thread of ink.
But as the weeks stretched, the tone of his letters shifted. The words, though tender, grew shorter, his pen strokes hurried. Then came longer pauses between each reply, as though silence crept steadily into the space once filled with eagerness.
She tried to reason with herself. He must be busy. His family must keep him occupied. He promised to write. Yet reason seldom soothed the ache of an empty postbox, nor the sting of watching others receive correspondence while her own hands remained bare.
Each morning, she walked to the garden gate and lingered, watching for the post rider. Each evening, she returned with disappointment heavy in her chest. Her niece once asked innocently, "Are you waiting for someone, Aunt?" She smiled faintly, but the question cut deeper than the child could ever know.
The nights were hardest. In the silence, her fears became louder. She remembered his father's disapproving eyes, his sister's carefully written letter of warning. She remembered the feeling of standing small before the weight of a world that could dismiss her love with a single cold phrase: She is not one of us.
Her friends told her gently to be patient, but patience had already been stretched to its thinnest thread. She feared that each day without word was another brick placed upon the wall that might soon separate them forever.
And yet, despite all the doubt, she continued to write. Each night she sat at her small desk, candlelight flickering upon the paper, her pen moving in loops and swirls. She wrote of her days, of the garden's slow withering in autumn's chill, of the loneliness that clung to her. But she also wrote of hope — fragile though it was — and of her steadfast love.
One evening, as rain lashed against the window and the wind moaned through the eaves, she could bear it no longer. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and whispered into the darkness, "Do you still think of me?"
Her chest tightened with the fear of the answer.
The following morning dawned pale and bleak. She woke with heaviness in her limbs, dragging herself through her chores until at last she heard it — the familiar clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels upon gravel. Her heart leapt painfully.
She rushed to the door as the post rider dismounted. For a moment, she dared not breathe, afraid to hope. And then he handed her a letter — his handwriting unmistakable, bold and sure upon the envelope.
Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal. The words within blurred as tears filled her eyes, but slowly, line by line, she read.
He spoke of the storm that surrounded him, of his father's accusations, of his sister's warnings. He spoke of the weight of duty pressing upon his shoulders, the expectations of a family who would see love as weakness.
But most of all, he spoke of her.
You are not an entanglement, nor a folly. You are my heart. No family, no distance, no duty shall sever me from you. Even in the shadow of expectation, I remain yours.
She pressed the letter to her lips, her tears spilling freely now, not from despair but from relief so sharp it hurt. The silence that had haunted her was broken, and in its place was the echo of his vow.
She read it again, and again, each word sinking deep into her soul, until she could almost hear his voice as though he stood beside her. The fear that had gnawed at her for weeks dissolved into something steadier, fiercer: resolve.
If he was fighting against the tide of his family, then she too would fight against the tide of loneliness. She would not let despair undo what they had built. Their love had survived absence before; it could endure again.
That night, she wrote her reply with a renewed hand. The words flowed easily, no longer tainted by doubt. She wrote of her pride in him, of her belief in his strength, of her own vow to stand unyielding.
If the world seeks to pull us apart, let it try. It shall not succeed. For even as the candle burns low, I will wait, and I will hope, and I will love you still.
When she sealed the letter, she did so with a steadiness she had not felt in weeks. The candle beside her flickered, its flame bright despite the draught. And for the first time in many nights, she allowed herself to sleep with a smile, the letter clutched to her chest.
Outside, the rain had ceased, and though the night sky remained clouded, she dreamed of dawn — a dawn that would bring them together once more.