It had been a thousand years—a thousand years since she had seen him, since his figure had retreated on the horizon to nothing but a dark silhouette. And yet, as she studied the expanse of the plain and its hazy outline against the brilliant sunset, it was almost as if she could see him, even now—almost as if she were still watching him leave her.
The night was near, and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap as she remembered that ancient farewell. A smile touched her lips, bittersweet against her dirty, tear-streaked face. She was old now, and weary, and unsightly, but she remembered what he could not. She remembered the glorious summer nights with him by the river, laughing with him, basking in the love he so freely gave. She had been young, and he had been perfect, and oh, how she had loved him.
And then, in an instant, it seemed, he was gone.
This memory, and a chilly night breeze, sent a shudder through her frail frame. War had swept over the world like a mighty wave, taking some and leaving others to weep salty tears into the sea. He, astride his ancient, sickly horse, had galloped away.
He left her. For awhile, she was angry with him. She went mad with fury, trying to postpone the attack of grief that was sure to come. He had been young, vital, and strong, but that didn’t matter. Two months had scarcely passed when she saw a stranger’s horse galloping across the plain to her cottage, on the doorstep of which she sat now, watching the man in her mind’s eye. He had been dressed in a scarlet jacket, which looked bloody in the light of the dying sun. He had touched her shoulder consolingly, but his gloved hands against her skin seemed distant. She watched his lips move and his eyes soften in compassion, but she heard nothing. And yet she knew what he said.
It had been a strange moment for her heart to break—there on the very doorstep upon which she had sat when she bid her lost love a final farewell. She had been numb, she remembered—her brain had put up a shield to keep the pain from killing her. He was dead. He had died a coward, attempting to flee. She knew he would have come back to her, if he had not been discovered and killed first, and that was what hurt the most.
She truly went mad then. She moistened her lips and gazed towards the horizon as she remembered those days. She had still been young. She could have gone out and started a new life, but she didn’t. She had remained in the same house for what had seemed like thousands of years. And here she sat again, on that same doorstep, again at sunset, ready, at last, to die.
She sat back on the step, her old bones creaking, and she let out a soft breath into the evening air. The plain was silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for this queer, ancient lady to finally fade. She crossed her arms comfortably, and closed her eyes, her lined face touched with a strange serenity. She thought again of that final farewell, of his silhouette retreating in the distance, and, at last, she saw his face. A slight smile raised the corners of her thin lips. She took a deep, rattling breath, and exhaled gently, slowly. Then she laid her head back, and was gone, her last breath born on a gentle breeze across the plain, lit by the bloody light of the dying sun.
