Chapter 8

Time passed, but the ache in his chest never waned. He carried her memory with him, a ghost that walked beside him in every moment. He saw her in the faces of strangers, heard her voice in the whisper of the wind. And though she was gone, her love remained—etched into the fabric of his soul, an indelible mark that no amount of regret could erase. One night, he found himself standing outside the bookshop where she had once spent her afternoons. He stepped inside, running his fingers along the worn spines of the books she had loved. He picked up a volume of poetry, flipping through the pages until he found a verse she had underlined in delicate script: Love does not perish with the body, nor fade with time. It lingers, eternal, in the hearts of those who dare to remember. Tears blurred his vision. He clutched the book to his chest, whispering the words like a prayer. "I remember. And I always will." Love had not died. It had merely waited, unseen, in the quiet corners of his heart, waiting to be found at last.