The last night I had a dream. I dreamt that we were born a hundred years ago. You
and I were neighbors. Our houses were single-storied and filled with happiness. We
were childhood friends who grew up to fall in love.
Our homes shared a garden, where the flowers from your plants were mine, and the
flowers from my plants were yours. We spent our days in the valley, chasing sheep,
and when we had too much to say, we simply sat by the stream, our feet dangling in
the water.
Whenever we met, I wore the red ribbon you gifted me in my hair. We shared our first
kiss behind the neighbor's shed and spent winters wrapped in a single blanket by the
fire. Though we talked endlessly, we still wrote letters to each other, whispering our
love through ink. Our lamps glowed late into the night, and through our windows, our
eyes met—until dawn embraced the sky.
I wept when you left in search of a livelihood, but what kept me sane was your
promise:
"I will be back soon to have a life with you."
And so, I waited.
Days turned into seasons. Seasons turned into years. The red ribbon faded, my letters
piled up, and the lamps burned alone. But you never returned.
And when I woke up, it was a hundred years later and I haven't stopped waiting.
Perhaps, in another dream, a hundred years from now, we will find each other again.