David stood before her, the years etched into the lines of his face, but there was still something unmistakable about him. The same strong jawline, now dusted with a day's worth of stubble, and the same crooked smile that had always made Clara's heart flutter. His hair, once dark and thick, was now peppered with gray, though it still fell in the same messy way he never bothered to comb. His eyes, though older, were still the same warm hazel that had always made her feel like she was the only person in the room when he looked at her. The years hadn't dulled his presence—they had only added layers to it, making him seem more real, more tangible, as if life had carved him into something solid, something unmovable.
The worn leather jacket he wore hung loosely from his broad shoulders, its edges softened with age. It had been his favorite piece of clothing, one he wore through every season, every memory, a silent testament to the adventures he used to share with Clara. His boots, scuffed and weathered, carried the weight of untold stories, of roads traveled and places left behind. He stood there, a figure of quiet strength, yet there was an air of uncertainty about him, something in the way his hands shifted slightly at his sides, as though unsure of his place in this moment.
Clara had always known David to be a man of few words, his emotions often hidden behind a calm, stoic exterior. But now, standing before her, there was a vulnerability in his gaze that made her chest tighten. The way he looked at her—the way he whispered her name—spoke volumes. Time had changed him, but in some ways, he was still the same. The man she had known all those years ago was still there, only now, he had been shaped by experiences she couldn't even begin to imagine.
