The decree fell like the toll of a funeral bell—cold, final, and without mercy. Her aunt, her voice quivering with both indignation and triumph, announced that her father had been written to, and the matter could no longer be hidden. Arrangements were already in motion; she was to be sent away to her uncle's house in the neighbouring county until "the scandal" had been cleansed from memory.
The girl received the news in silence, though her heart recoiled as though pierced by a blade. To leave the village was to leave him. To be carried into another household, far from the orchard, far from the stolen letters and the chance of glimpsing him even from a distance—that was exile of the cruellest kind.
Her cousin looked on with thinly veiled satisfaction, while the aunt spoke of "duty" and "propriety" with lips that trembled less from concern than from fury. Every word cut her deeper, but she gave no outward sign. She only bowed her head, her hands folded tightly in her lap, and waited for the torrent to pass.
---
Meanwhile, across the village, his brother acted with equal swiftness. That very evening he informed him, with all the air of an unchallengeable decree, that arrangements had been made for work in another town. "It will be good for you," the elder man declared, though his eyes betrayed the iron will behind the words. "You will find honest labour, new company, and you will forget this foolish entanglement before it ruins us both."
He listened in silence, his jaw tight, his heart a storm of rebellion. Forget? As though one might forget the beating of one's own heart. He offered no reply, for he knew no words could move his brother's resolve. But inwardly he swore that distance, however vast, could not sever the vow made beneath the orchard trees.
---
News travels swiftly when it rides the wings of dread. By nightfall, a note found its way into her hands, smuggled through the trembling kindness of a servant who pitied her sorrow. She tore it open in haste, her eyes devouring each word:
"They mean to part us. My brother will send me away, as your aunt has contrived for you. This may be our last chance. Meet me tomorrow at dawn, by the river path. If they take us from one another, let it not be without a word, without a touch to carry us through the silence."
Her heart beat wildly as she pressed the letter to her breast. Tomorrow at dawn—perhaps the last dawn they would ever share. The thought both terrified and strengthened her, for she knew she must go, no matter the cost.
---
The river lay shrouded in mist when she stole out of the house at first light. Her cloak was drawn tightly about her, her steps quick yet cautious upon the dew-laden path. Each rustle in the hedgerow set her heart racing, yet the fear of discovery was nothing compared to the dread of losing him without farewell.
And then, through the veil of mist, she saw him. He stood upon the bank, his figure resolute against the pale glow of the rising sun. When his eyes found hers, all restraint fell away. She ran to him, and in the next instant his arms closed around her, lifting her heart from its abyss.
For a long while neither spoke. Words were too frail, too thin to carry the weight of that moment. It was he who first broke the silence, his voice hoarse with feeling.
"They will not stop until they have torn us apart. I am to leave by week's end."
"And I," she whispered, "am to be sent to my uncle's house. We are trapped."
He held her tighter, as though the force of his embrace might defy the world itself. "Trapped, yes—but not defeated. Remember what we swore. No matter where they send us, no matter what walls they raise, our hearts remain one."
She buried her face against his chest, her tears seeping into the fabric of his coat. "How shall I bear it? Days without sight of you, nights without your words to comfort me? It feels like death."
"It is not death," he answered gently, tilting her chin so that her eyes met his. "It is trial. And trials, though bitter, cannot undo what is true. Hold fast to me, as I shall to you. Write, if you can. Pray, if you must. And when the time is right, I will find you again, even if I must walk a thousand miles."
His words steadied her, yet the ache of parting pressed upon her with unbearable weight. She clung to him, desperate to fix every detail of his face in memory—the curve of his brow, the light in his eyes, the warmth of his hand against hers. For in a few days' time, these would be all she had to sustain her.
---
The river flowed quietly beside them, heedless of their sorrow, carrying its waters to distant lands. She thought of how its course would continue long after they were gone, and it seemed to her a cruel symbol of time's indifference. Yet in that indifference she found also a glimmer of hope: just as the river returned again and again to its source, so too might love find its way despite the turns and twists of fate.
At last he spoke, his voice heavy with resolve. "We must part now, before the village stirs. If they find us here, they will harden their chains the more."
She nodded, though her soul cried out against it. Slowly, reluctantly, they drew apart, their hands lingering until the very last moment, fingers entwined as though to resist the inevitable.
"Remember," he said, his gaze burning into hers, "you are mine, as I am yours. This distance is but a shadow. Love endures."
"Love endures," she echoed, her voice breaking.
And with that final vow, they turned away—each walking back into a world that sought to divide them, carrying only the fragile strength of memory and hope.
---
That morning, the mist rose from the river and the sun climbed steadily into the sky. To the world, it was an ordinary dawn. But to them, it was the hour of parting, the hour when love was tested not by presence but by absence.
And though their paths now bent away from one another, in their hearts they knew they walked still together, bound by a vow stronger than the forces arrayed against them.