He was a man who had grown accustomed to endings.
A man who lingered too long before closed doors, tracing their edges with regret,
while she stood beside him—always seeing the open window just beyond.

His faith had frayed, threadbare from years of dashed hopes and dreams left to wither.
And she—she was hope made real.
She wore it in her smile, in the ease of her voice, in the grace of her every step.
Where his body bore the scars of battles fought and lost,
her cinnamon skin seemed untouched by disappointment, unmarked by bitterness.

At their last meeting, as the world seemed to dim around him,
she pulled him close in a long, steady embrace—
the kind that steadied not the body, but the soul.

And she whispered:
“Believe in something good to happen. Trust that you will be happy.”

But the words felt like a distant star, too far for his weary heart to reach.
He tried—tried to hold the image she offered, tried to catch even a spark of her light.
Yet the shadows of his past crowded close,
mocking his effort, dimming his hope.
Where she saw the sunrise, he could only feel the night.

And so, he watched her walk away, carrying her light with her.
And for a moment, he mourned not what he had lost, but what he had not yet learned to see.