"It won't work, Abigail. It won't end well—it never ends well!"
"Who cares how it ends? Life is about the journey! Henry . . . Do you love me?"
Henry awoke in a fit. He was cold—so cold. It was the type of coldness that penetrated his fleece pajamas, penetrated his skin, and sank straight into his bones. He shivered and rubbed his face, as if it would cure that phantom pain sprouting from deep within his chest.
Abigail . . . Today was their anniversary. Forty years today he had asked her to marry him and like an angel, she had accepted.
"I know this may be rash—"
He took her hands in his, caressing her beautiful, dainty hands, and bent down on one knee. He looked up to his shining angel, to a face luminous with surprise and indescribable joy. A feeling within his chest blossomed and he wondered if he had finally entered heaven after one hundred and fifty years.
"But for as long as I live, I will always love you. Forever. Abigail . . . will you be my wife?"
The feeling in his chest tightened. He could hardly breathe; he—surely he was about to choke . . . But—what did it matter anymore? Life held nothing but misery and tears for him now; death had not looked so appealing to him in nearly fifty years. What can you do when even death isn't an option? He took a shaky breath, eyes sliding towards the window.
"Oh!" Abigail raised her hands to her mouth in pleasant surprise, eyes glittering with awe and excitement.
"Henry, look . . .," she breathed, pointing to a beautiful cherry tree. Spring had arrived and brought with it a parade of life, of blossoming plants and bees and butterflies. The cherry tree was perhaps the most vibrant Henry had ever seen. The pinkest of pinks sprouted from the branches of the tree, glittering in the morning sun in a day so awash with color and—and life! The flowers covered almost every inch of the tree limbs and the effect it wrought was simply marvelous.
"It's so beautiful . . ."
But now the sunlight was tainted with wretched black and brown. The trees donned a greyness so revolting, so encapsulating, that it chased away spring and left in its wake green-less greenery, trees built from ashes and tears, limbs hosting the dregs of life as they ghosted along the beaten path. Henry sucked in a painful breath.
And just like nature's radiance . . .
Abigail was gone.
