I held his hand, saying through my tears:
“Don’t go, James. I haven’t finished making today’s tea yet.”
“I’ve made it. I smell cinnamon… That’s enough, Sarah.”
Then he gently closed his eyes, the smile still on his lips.
A year after James’s passing, I still lived in that old house.
Every autumn morning, I still made two cups of tea, placing one in front of the empty chair.
I still whispered like before:
“James, the tea is ready. It’s just that this year, the maple leaves fell earlier.”
I know he’s still there – in the wind, in the scent of the tea, in my heartbeat.
There are loves that come late, but last forever – no need for vows, no need for time to prove.
