A Man and A Woman

The warmth of the sun kisses my skin as I sit on the soft picnic blanket, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of fresh grass and blooming flowers. The woman laughs as she carefully arranges slices of apples on a small plate, her movements gentle and familiar, as if she’s done this a thousand times before.

“Here, I know how much you love these.”

The man sitting beside her chuckles as he uncorks a bottle of lemonade.

"Don’t eat all of them."

He teases, pouring the drink into a glass. There’s warmth in his voice, something comforting; I feel safe. 

The woman hums a tune, something distant yet oddly familiar, and the man leans back on his elbows, watching the sky.

“Look at the clouds… See that one? It looks like a cat.”

The woman playfully nudges him.

“It’s clearly a duck.”

I can't help but smile. The scene is simple, yet it feels perfect—like a moment frozen in time, untouched by anything beyond this meadow.

The woman turns to me, her eyes soft but unreadable.

"You always loved days like this… Didn’t you?"

There’s something in her tone—something wistful, something waiting. But before I can answer, before I can ask what she means, the world around me begins to blur. The voices fade. The warmth of the sun vanishes.

And suddenly, I sit in a garden holding flowers, standing in front of a grave. Alone.