On our fiftieth anniversary, we returned to the hill. The sky was clear, the stars embroidered in the fabric of the night, just as they had been so many years before. We lay side by side in the grass, your hand in mine, the world silent around us.
"Do you think they remember us?" you asked softly, your voice touched with age but still so familiar.
I turned to look at you, my heart swelling with the love that had carried us through a lifetime. "I think they never forgot."
You smiled then, your eyes shining with the same light they had always held.
And as we lay there, beneath the endless sky, I closed my eyes and whispered to the stars, thank you.
For bringing us together. For carrying us through.
The years had stretched between us like an endless expanse of sky, but standing here now, under the stars we once claimed as our own, the distance collapsed. The world around me seemed to still as I climbed the hill, each step carrying the weight of memory and hope.
And there you were.
You stood at the top, framed by the night sky, the stars above glowing faintly brighter, as if they recognized us too. Your hair caught the breeze, your profile etched in silver light. My breath caught, and for a moment, I didn't move. What if you turned and didn't remember me the way I remembered you? What if the stars had been wrong?