Winter came early that year. Frost clung stubbornly to the windows, and the air, sharp and brittle, seemed to pierce the lungs with each breath. He had grown accustomed to the rigours of labour, but even his sturdy frame could not withstand the chill entirely. One evening, after hours spent in the frozen fields, he returned to his narrow lodgings with a fever that burned hot against the cold of the world outside.
The cough began that night. It rattled his chest, leaving him restless and weak. For days he pressed on with his duties, unwilling to appear frail before the men who worked beside him. Yet the fever worsened, sapping his strength until the spade slipped from his grasp and he collapsed in the furrows he had so diligently tilled.
They carried him to the inn, laid him upon a straw mattress, and spoke in hushed tones of whether he would last the week. But amidst the haze of fever, one name pressed continually from his lips — hers.
---
News of his illness did not reach her quickly; the road was long, and winter slowed every messenger. Yet she felt it, as lovers often do, in the marrow of her bones. A sense of dread settled upon her heart, an unshakable unease that stole her rest at night. She would sit by the window, staring into the dark, whispering prayers into the silence.
When at last a letter came — not from his hand but from a fellow labourer — her fears were given form. He is gravely unwell. The fever takes him, and though he speaks of you with every breath, I fear he may not endure.
Her fingers trembled as she clutched the parchment. The room spun; the world seemed to grow unbearably small. How cruel, that when at last they had overcome silence and rumour, he should be struck by such frailty.
She wanted to run to him at once, to cast aside the whispers of propriety and the restrictions of distance. Yet she was bound by circumstance, by the watchful eyes of her family and the limits of her world. To travel alone would be folly; to confess openly her yearning would invite scandal.
And yet, what is scandal to the beating of a heart that fears its other half may cease?
---
Meanwhile, he lay in a fevered half-dream. His body was weak, but his mind wandered to memories of her: the light of her smile, the gentleness of her hand upon his arm, the music of her laughter that once filled a birthday hall. He clung to those recollections as to a lifeline, repeating them silently when words failed.
The innkeeper's wife, moved by the sight of so proud a young man undone, wrote to her in secret, urging her to send words swiftly. "If he is to recover," she wrote, "it will be by your letters, for it is your name he calls upon, and your absence that makes his spirit falter."
---
So she wrote, though her tears fell freely upon the page.
My dearest, do not surrender to the fever. If I cannot sit at your side, let my words be the hand that steadies you. Each dawn I pray, each night I whisper your name into the stars. You are not alone, for I am with you in thought, in heart, in every breath I take. Hold on, beloved, for we have yet to see our story fulfilled. The world may wound us, but it cannot claim us. Not yet.
The letter took days to reach him, but when at last it was placed upon his chest, he stirred. Weak fingers unfolded the parchment, weary eyes traced her familiar hand, and for the first time in weeks, a smile broke through the fever's shadow.
Her words, simple and steadfast, drew him back from the brink. He read them again and again, until the ink blurred and the paper softened with wear. Each line seemed a tether binding him to life, a reminder that though his body failed, love endured.
---
Gradually, as the days passed, the fever relented. His strength returned, first in trembling steps to the hearth, then in cautious labour in the yard. He bore the marks of his illness — weight lost, cheeks hollowed, a cough that lingered still — but his spirit was renewed. For in his darkest hour, she had reached him across the miles, and her words had become his salvation.
---
When next he wrote, his hand was unsteady, yet his words flowed with renewed conviction.
Beloved, death brushed against me, but it found no welcome here. For though my flesh faltered, my heart could not — it is bound to you, unyielding. You saved me, though you were not beside me. Your letter was the very breath of life, and I swear upon all that remains to me that I shall endure every hardship, every exile, until I may stand before you again. Let the world conspire as it will; my love is stronger. Even fever could not unfasten it.
---
When she read those lines, relief overwhelmed her. She pressed the letter to her lips, whispering thanks into the quiet. Love, tested once more, had prevailed. And though she still longed for the day when distance would no longer stand between them, she knew their bond had deepened. For now they shared not only moments of joy and longing, but also the shadow of near-loss — and the knowledge that even at the edge of death, their love endured.
---
Thus winter passed, leaving behind scars of illness, but also proof of resilience. They had weathered silence, rumour, and now sickness, and still their hearts had not broken. And so the tale pressed forward, step by step, toward the day when no trial could part them.