The fever had passed, leaving him thinner, paler, and weaker than before, but alive. Each day, as the frost loosened its grip upon the land, he found himself stronger. He could now walk to the edge of the inn-yard without trembling, lean against the fence, and look upon the distant horizon as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled.
Though his body still bore the memory of illness, his heart was lighter, for her letter remained tucked close against his chest. He read it in the quiet hours, each word a balm, each phrase a reminder that love, though unseen, was more steadfast than stone.
Yet he longed for more — not only the letters, precious as they were, but some tangible piece of her presence. A ribbon, a token, even the faintest of reminders that she existed not merely in memory but in the world of touch and breath.
---
One morning, the innkeeper's wife, who had taken pity upon him during his fever, handed him a small parcel. "It came with the merchant's cart," she said, smiling knowingly. "No sender named, but I can guess well enough who thought to send it."
His fingers trembled as he unwrapped the modest bundle. Inside lay a handkerchief, delicately embroidered with the initials of her name. The stitching was not elaborate, yet each thread spoke of patience, of nights bent over fabric by candlelight, of a heart determined to leave behind a trace of itself.
Beneath it, folded with care, was a pressed flower — a wild daisy, its petals slightly browned with age, but its shape preserved as though time itself had conspired to protect it.
He brought it to his lips, closing his eyes. It was nothing more than a fragile bloom, yet to him it was more precious than gold. For it had been touched by her hands, chosen by her eyes, and sent across the miles as a whisper of herself.
---
She, too, awaited word of its arrival. In sending the token, her heart had leapt between hope and fear: hope that it might reach him unspoiled, fear that it might be dismissed as childish. Yet she knew he would understand. For their love had long been woven from small things — a glance at a birthday gathering, a silence shared beneath watchful eyes, the scratch of ink upon paper carried across uncertain roads.
In the quiet of her room, she traced the absence left by the flower she had pressed within her book, imagining it now in his hands. "May it hold you as I cannot," she whispered. "May it remind you that though I am far, I am yours still."
---
His reply, when it came, was unsteady in hand yet fervent in spirit.
My beloved, he wrote, your gift arrived as though the heavens themselves had borne it. The daisy lies now upon my table, and I cannot look upon it without thinking of you. How fragile it is, yet how enduring — much like our love, which though pressed by distance and trial, does not wither. Your handkerchief I carry daily, close to my heart, as though your touch lingers upon it still.
When I was sick, I thought often that I might not rise again. Yet even then, it was you I clung to — your memory, your words. And now, with this token, I feel you nearer. If the world denies us meeting, still I count myself rich, for I have your love, and that is treasure enough to see me through exile.
He sealed the letter with hands that no longer shook quite so violently, and entrusted it to the post with a prayer that it might not be delayed.
---
In her chamber, days later, she broke the seal and read his words by candlelight. Tears filled her eyes, though they were not of sorrow alone, but of joy, of relief, of the knowledge that their love had endured another trial.
She pressed the letter to her lips, whispering, "One day, I shall not need to wait upon ink and paper. One day, I shall hear those words upon his lips, and not upon the page."
---
Thus the days passed into weeks. Winter gave way to the first breath of spring, when snowdrops pierced the thawing earth and the sun lingered longer in the sky. And though they remained apart, their bond had grown sturdier, fortified not only by longing but by proof of endurance.
The flower upon his table did not fade as quickly as he feared. In its quiet persistence, he saw a mirror of their own tale: delicate, perhaps, yet unbroken. And whenever doubt crept upon him — whispers of impossibility, of families and distances too vast — he laid eyes upon that daisy and remembered.
Love, after all, is not always forged in grand gestures. Sometimes it rests within the humblest of offerings — a letter carried through storms, a flower pressed within a book, a token stitched with trembling hands. And though the world might deem such things small, to hearts bound across miles they are immeasurable.
---
Thus, with each exchange of word and token, they stitched together a tapestry of devotion that distance could not unmake. The season of trial was not yet ended, but in the quiet between storms, they had found solace: a handkerchief, a flower, a promise.
And in those small things lay the strength to endure until the greater promise — of reunion, of touch, of life lived side by side — might at last be fulfilled.