Setting: Early morning at the sanctuary. The air is crisp, and something new stirs—not dramatic, but meaningful.

Eiran woke up to the smell of cinnamon and sun.

She was already up. Of course.

He found her in the café kitchen, hair tied loosely, swaying slightly to a song playing from her phone—a soft acoustic piece with barely-there vocals.

Aira looked up when she heard him. Her smile wasn’t the kind you give guests or friends. It was the kind you save for someone who knows where the spoons are without asking.

“Coffee or tea?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked up, wrapped your arms around her waist from behind, and kissed the back of her neck.

“That,” he murmured, “was a yes to both.”

The New Rhythm

Mornings were different now.

He didn’t need to fill silence with planning or chores. He made space for moments like:

• Aira scribbling menu ideas in the margins of a gardening book.

• He hammering out a pergola near the vineyard while she painted a sign for it: “The Listening Table.”

• Picking tomatoes side by side in the golden hour, sharing bites of fruit and bits of memory.

Guests still came, but now many of them came back. Not for the retreat alone—but for the feeling the place held. They called it “something you can’t name, but don’t want to leave.”

That something was Aira.

And perhaps… him too.

One Quiet Day 

Eiran found her by the pond again, feet in the water, her journal open beside her.

She held something in her hand—a worn envelope, the kind that looks like it's waited too long.

“It’s from someone named Elis,” she said. “She used to work at the hospital where my mother stayed in her final months.”

Eiran sat beside her, listening without pushing.

“She says my mother wrote a letter before she passed. She never had the courage to send it. Until now.”

Aira's voice was steady, but soft. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

Eiran held out his hand.

“Let’s read it together.”

That Evening

The sun dipped low. The pond reflected the sky in silver.

Eiran and Aira sat with the letter between them.

Inside was a single sheet, folded carefully.

“My Aira,
I don’t know if I’ll have time to say these words aloud. But I see you—in every sunrise I still get to open my eyes to. I hope you forgive me. Not for being ill, but for not always knowing how to love you loudly.
If you find peace somewhere—if you plant yourself in a place that feels like breath—stay. Grow. And when the wind brushes your cheek, I hope you’ll know… it’s me.”

Aira didn’t cry right away. She closed her eyes first, holding the letter to her chest like something sacred.

“She did love me,” she whispered. “She just didn’t know how to show it.”

Eiran didn’t reply. He just wrapped her in his arms—and felt the final wall between them dissolve.

🌙 After That Night

She placed the letter in her journal, behind a dried jasmine flower.

In the café, she hung a small plaque above the corner bookshelf. It read:

“For those who still need to hear what was left unsaid.”

And more guests than you’d imagine stood beneath it, quietly letting go.