He climbed the hill at dawn, as he had every year since she left. The grass swayed like it once did around her silhouette, green and endless, stretching toward mountains that had watched them fall in love.
She was a wanderer's daughter, he a ronin with no home. They had met on this very ridge, two strangers drawn together by the same restless wind. For one summer, the hills were theirs — quiet mornings, whispered promises, a love that needed no words, only presence.
Then war called him away, and distance became a blade sharper than any he carried. She waited. He returned too late. Now only the field remembers her laughter, folded into every blade of grass.
Still, he comes back. Not to grieve, but to feel her nearness in the wind — a love time couldn't cut down.
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